


The Seminal Catastrophe (Steampunk AU)

by Zemas



Category: South Park
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Assassination Plot(s), Complicated Relationships, Dark, Death, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Historical References, Lovecraftian, M/M, Nobility, POV Multiple, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Slow Burn, Violence, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2020-04-11 23:42:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 44,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19120129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zemas/pseuds/Zemas
Summary: Death, Love, Intrigue, War, Hope, Darkness. All will come together in this Steampunk AU containing the South Park crew. After a sudden assassination of Albion's Queen-Emperor, the United Kingdom and the rest of the world are set down a spiral towards catastrophe. Everyone will be affected. Pip, must take the throne amidst cut-throat politics and court intrigue. Many will not have his best interests at heart. Kyle and Stan, seeing disaster, attempt to steer the ship of states away from the iceberg of war between Albion and the Coalition. Craig is impacted by a sudden crime targeted at his family, forcing him to navigate the underground world alongside his newfound crush, Tweek. Cartman attempts to use all the cards in his hand and his sleeve to become the most powerful and richest man alive.Yet, all of them live in the moment, only being able to see one step ahead when death lurks behind them at all times. Kenny, a detective running under the government-funded Mysterion Investigations Agency, knows that far darker times lie underneath the surface and he is the one with the only knowledge and power to stop it. Yet, he must not forget about his own personal relationships, for flying too close to the sun can burn.





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> All the main children are of age (by British standards) and vary from 16-30, Cartman and Kenny being the oldest of the South Park kids in the story.
> 
> For the world building, an attempt at alternative names will be used for nations and cities. The story will not take place in an exact replica of the world, but all relative geographies are the same (like the GTA universe).
> 
> I hope you all enjoy this story, as I plan to work on it as a personal Summer project for you all to enjoy. Updates should be weekly, but there is no particular time frame for each release of the chapters.

Craig Tucker stared at the rolling countryside that flashed by in the window. The verdant hills and the patches of trees that lay on them basked in the sunlight. He was quite annoyed because the sun was actually out today and he was trapped in some damn train to go to some stupid jubilee and party he didn’t give a shit about. All he could do is stare at the fields fenced off by stone walls where farmers and a few of the metallic automatons tended to the crops. Most of the crops were wheat, their golden sprouts trying to reach the sun. A mixture of horses and the newfangled horseless farming equipment sat in the middle of the fields. Tractors, he believed, they were called.

 

Every year, Craig could see that the influence of technology was becoming more of a common sight rather than the fantastical wonder they were when he was a young kid. In the end, he became merely indifferent to the machines that looked more human despite their brass construct as the innovation advanced with time. He was only mildly annoyed when certain people started comparing his personality to the things, saying that he had less emotion than an automaton. That was undeniably a favourite analogy by his sister.

 

As more and more fields and even a farmer with his herd of sheep passed by, he breathed in a deep sigh. This was boring as hell. Just then, static interrupted his thoughts as a voice emerged from above. Despite the clanking of the train’s wheels rolling along the tracks, he could just about make out the voice of the announcer who said, “Hello… Thank you for uh, riding on Albion’s Great Western Railways. The conductor would like to say the estimated time of arrival is around four hours. Thank you again.”

 

After the line cut and the static was gone, Craig let out a groan. For being the workshop of the world, couldn’t Albion develop faster trains? He heard news from Ruthenia in the Imperial Federation that the Trans-Siberian Railroad won a record of traversing over 9,000 km in just under four days of continuous driving. Of course, the companies and inventors of Albion focused more on airship travel than the trains which were bound by railroad infrastructure. Which… brings the question of why they aren’t travelling by airship. His dad would say because they were deathtraps. Personally, Craig knew it was because despite being nobles, they wouldn’t be able to afford to maintain the contraptions and its crew.

 

The Tucker family used to be a major noble family (and technically still is, retaining the title of Duke) but a series of bad investments and financial decisions by one of his ancestors caused the family to run near bankruptcy. It was only under his grandmother that they had recovered any resemblance of their former fortune which is why he was stuck on some crappy train.

 

Well, he couldn’t say it was complete crap. It was just the slowest thing in existence. At the very least, it was comfortable. The private car was very fancy. Basically, it was like a miniature lounge with a bunch of chairs made of fine, dark red fabric and large comfortable beds for those taking overnight trips. Beautiful woodwork lined the walls in intricate patterns and brass melded together to complement the wood as well as provide structural integrity. Their whole car was also in fact, two stories. Currently, his parents and sister were upstairs while Craig sat in his own little booth downstairs wanting to be left alone.

 

After staring into space through the window for several minutes, he sank into the chair and sighed while his midnight blue lounge jacket was pushed upwards, wrinkling it slightly as it loses its form.

 

“Son, you really should sit straight up before you ruin that suit of yours.”

 

Somehow, his mum had managed to sneak down while he was lost in his thoughts. He looked at her while he halfheartedly sat back up and straightened his jacket. His mother was wearing her typical green long jacket and a skirt of matching colour. Not far behind her was his little sister, wearing a light blue dress.

 

“Do I have to mum? No one’s going to bloody see me here.”

 

“Yes, but you’re going to risk wrinkling your jacket. Besides that, we have a busy schedule ahead of us when we arrive at Paddington Station. Follow your sister’s example for once.”

 

Tricia gave a little posh twirl and the brat had the biggest smug, grin on her face. Craig automatically responded by flipping her the bird while keeping his stoic expression.

 

Laura shook her head and sighed. “Craig, please keep that middle finger of yours under control. I don’t want last time to happen again. Now come on, you need to get ready.”

 

“Do I have to?”

 

“Yes, come on. The Royal Ball is huge this year considering it’s the 60th anniversary of the Queen’s reign. They’re calling it the Diamond Jubilee and it will be even bigger than the Golden Jubilee. Nobles and dignitaries from all over the world are invited, including those from the Coalition,” Craig’s face lit up from this revelation. “and the Artificer’s Guild.” She looked over Craig, who was wearing his favourite chullo her son somehow managed to get at one point in time. “You’ll need to take that hat off.”

 

“No, I don’t,” Craig protested.

 

“Yes, you do. Now come upstairs. It’s not like you have anything else to do.”

 

Craig decided it might just make time go by faster, so he stopped further protest and began to follow his mum upstairs. His damn sister, Ruby, smiled brightly as if she managed to achieve some great victory over him. “Wait, so the people from the Coalition are invited?”

 

“Yes,” Laura smiled knowing what he was insinuating. “I can testify. I was able to gain some top information about the guest list.”

 

“Neat.”

 

* * *

 

The large airship, with its enormous white balloon, emblazoned with the Artificer’s Guild’s copper lily, was descending from its altitude above the clouds. What would be described as wings helped the ship glide through the air smoothly, aiding the ship's stability. It wasn't needed at the moment, however. It was perfect weather to arrive in due to the absence of thunderstorms and turbulence. Tweek Tweak felt the strong breeze flow through his blonde hair which was only contained from becoming messier due to his green, sheepskin hat and the goggles that lay just above the fur lining. At the prow, he could barely hear the commands and crew chatter above the wind and the whirring of the vehicle’s four large propellers that helped keep the vessel afloat. Here, he was at his element and he could actually feel calm and relaxed.

 

He heard footsteps behind him and could just sense someone’s presence behind him. After a little twitch, he turned around to be met by his father. Now, a passerby on the street would never be able to tell who the hell his father was. He wore a considerably plain, burgundy frock coat, a patterned, yellow waistcoat, black trousers, and a dark blue necktie. A simple copper lily adorned his front-left lapel. His hair also complemented his fashion, looking remarkably plain and average and there was a noticeable lack of facial hair everybody was so fond of these days. Many would assume that he was an ordinary gentleman artificer. On the contrary, Tweek’s father who looks like he’s ready for bed happened to be the current elected Technocrat, the leader of the major organisation many know simply as the Artificer’s Guild meaning his father is one of the most powerful men on the planet.

 

“Tweek!” he yelled. “Come inside or you’ll end up inhaling the smog and die.”

 

“What! Jesus, what do you mean?”

 

Richard laughed. “Well, Londinium happens to the most polluted city in the world. A small price - in their eyes - for Albion’s prosperity. But seriously, come inside. I picked out a brand new outfit for you to wear at the Jubilee. It was made by a popular fashion tailor.”

 

“Really? Are you going to wear something fancy as well, dad? Like, for once in your life?”

 

“Yes, son. It’s quite important that we make a good impression. It’s been years since the Artificer’s Guild was allowed into Albion and the first time we’ve been allowed an official visit. We can’t squander this opportunity to improve our relationship with the Queen. The guild depends on us.”

 

“Okay. That seems to be a lot of pressure to put on two people.”

 

The ship started emerging from the cloud layer, and Tweek could see what his dad meant. Black smoke billowed from smokestacks in the city below, clogging up the sky with darkness. However, lights from the various buildings and airships seemed to penetrate through the smog, providing illumination for the city’s residents. Tweek couldn’t help but feel unsettled at what would be the city’s first greeting. Personally, he had never stepped foot in what many called the capital of the world (a fitting name for the city at the centre of an empire spanning over a quarter of the globe), never mind stepping on the isles in the first place. It was his first visit. Of course, his father himself had visited when the guild had more prestige and better relations, but Tweek was too young to visit when his father was there.

 

On the offset of the city's architecture, he was awed by the city's seemingly endless fleet of airships. They were everywhere and they consisted of hundreds of different types of designs and bore different symbols and flags though the most common one was, of course, the Union Jack. There were ships of various sizes as well, from small patrol craft to large dreadnoughts. He had never seen such a confluence that contained so many ships.

 

His father beckoned for him to follow. “Come on son, let’s go inside.”

 

While Tweek followed his dad, two patrol craft positioned themselves on both sides of the guild’s vessel, presumably to escort them to an airship dock. After all, a peaceful and famous organisation being attacked unprovoked would cause quite an outrage. Despite being nervous and being full of anxiety, he was ready for what the United Kingdom had to offer. It couldn't be that bad, could it?

 

* * *

 

The Imperial Palace was hectic, with servants running all over, their footsteps echoing down the marble halls. There was a great fluttering of the many red coats that the servants donned as they bounced from one end to the other. Lots of preparation was needed for the vast number of guests that were invited for the Diamond Jubilee. It was integral to the prestige of Albion that everything looked picture perfect. Everything needed to look spic and span, and the right amount of food had to be prepared. The scale of the festivities was immense: a rough estimate would be 1,000 guests invited, and that's only for those allowed behind the palace doors for the Royal Ball and Royal Feast. Unfortunately. it was this list that Kyle was tasked to count up and check over by the Master of the Household who happened to be his father.

 

He was consigned to his dad’s office to work on this task. The office was almost entirely made of wood and the desk he sat at was made of the finest mahogany with an ebony top. The only major item that wasn’t wooden in nature was the floor which was made out of some dark red carpet. There was a nice seating area with several chairs and a sofa with a coffee table in the middle so his father could invite guests. For an office, the room was quite big though Kyle supposed it fit the nature of the Master of the Household of the most celebrated monarch and the most prestigious royal family in the world. Most people, whether they were in a monarchy or not, happened to respect the throne, even if it was grudging.

 

Most of the furniture and design of the room happened to be under the influence and direction of his dad, as he happened to hold the record for being in his position for the longest time despite the court politics. Thus, he got a hand when the Queen requested a new palace to be designed with the changing times and the rise of importance of Londinium. Albeit, the most personal item one could find is a Menorah, tucked away in an alcove yet still visible. Today, the room was hectic with all the papers laying about wherever there happened to be room and the list he was asked to read was a stack of paper.

 

Practically every noble family - well European nobility and those in the colonies - was invited, along with their families. Over 20 foreign monarchs and various heads of states and governments were also guests of the Queen, and there were a plethora of rich business owners invited as well. Many visitors from both within the nation and from outside the nation had begun trickling into Londinium weeks before any of the pre-Jubilee events even began, causing brief panic when the security and staff weren’t ready. Lord knows how the hotels are handling themselves.

 

It took Kyle three hours before he was sure that he had the correct number. He muttered to himself while writing the number at the top of the list, “One thousand, nought hundred and eighty-two guests, damn that’s a lot.”

 

In rather convenient timing, the door to the office opened and in came his father. “Kyle, have you finished tallying the number of guests?”

 

“Yes, dad. In fact, I had just finished before you came in.”

 

“Excellent. Can you read me the list of the heads of state? It’s important that we don’t forget any since those are technically state visits.”

 

“Yeah, sure.” Kyle read off the names, which were conveniently under a specific section, separated from the rest of the long list.

 

“...Butters, current Chief of the Skylords, and the Marsh family, monarchs of Gaul.”

 

“Hm. Everything seems to be in order. Well son, good job. Go ahead and take a break, now.”

 

“Thanks, dad. One quick question though.”

 

“Go ahead,” Gerald said flipping through some other papers.

 

“Who’s this Detective Kenny guy? How’d he get invited? It’s a bit unusual that a detective got invited and that there’s no last name provided.”

 

His dad looked up and pondered for a few seconds. “I think he was personally invited by the Queen for the jubilee. He’s some special detective in the United Commonwealths of America. Other than that, I don’t have much information on him as his work is relatively secretive, but I assure you he is quite important.”

 

“Huh, that’s interesting. Well, find me if you need me, dad. I know you’re horribly busy and you will need the help where you need it.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

Kyle bowed and wandered out of the office and into the hallway and was lost in thought. Fingers scratching his chin, he murmured, “Detective Kenny…”

 

* * *

 

From the viewing deck, Kenny could view the towering city of Londinium and its many different levels. He swore that the city grew several stories taller than when he last visited. Then again, time flew by quickly for him. Or was it the other way around? Was time slower? It doesn’t matter.

 

Kenny - mostly in part thanks to the government - was able to take the luxury steamer, the RMS Brassheart to participate in the jubilee. Interestingly, it was a state of the art vessel with no open deck, meaning everything was enclosed and the elements were warded off. It was sleek and elegant and had a top speed of over 20 knots. Unfortunately, only those with money could afford to experience the glorious craft, as there were only 1st and 2nd class. The lack of a 3rd class was conspicuous.

 

So from this viewing area, Kenny could not feel the wind or smell the sea. He couldn’t experience that small pleasure, only being able to view a grim and dark city that people seemed to romanticise and love. Neo-gothic skyscrapers dominated the skyline and imposed foreboding darkness on the residents below as they blocked any sunlight sneaking through the smog. For being a beacon of prosperity, the city didn’t seem like it could afford a pleasant atmosphere. Fortunately, or rather, unfortunately, depending on the viewpoint, Kenny wasn’t here for pleasantries. He was here on strict business, not to participate in the gallantry or the festivities. It’s why he decided to arrive in the city at the latest opportunity possible.

 

When he was notified that they were about to dock, he immediately straightened his grey greatcoat, straightened his fedora, and gathered his belongings - just a simple briefcase. He then proceeded to wait at the exit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the cool concept art I based the steamer Kenny arrives in.
> 
> https://www.deviantart.com/roseum/art/Steampunk-Ship-Brassheart-140588773?
> 
> The story will be written in multiple perspectives, but only the first few chapters will be formatted with different POVS. Eventually, chapters will become limited to one POV.
> 
> Tell me what you think of the chapter!


	2. The Spark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The majority of the cast meet up at a party, but something feels not quite right. Amidst the festivities, what could possibly go wrong? Only one person knows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a long one lads! Settle in.
> 
> As suggested, I'd like to go in a bit of the world building, so you lot know what is generally happening. With today's chapter, I'll go over the technology of society. The story is set in the 1880s, currently being the year 1884. However, in many ways society is way more advanced, and in some ways more advanced than in our world. Of course, the big thing is airships, but the other significant advancement is automatons. Automatons are quite advanced by this point in time, though not close to being anywhere near equal to human intelligence. Replicas of creatures in the form of automata do exist, so anything from birds to giant elephants exists in mechanical form. Electricity has not been sidelined in this universe, but serve as more of a complement to steam technology, lighting cities and serving niche roles where steam cannot be used. The modern internal combustion engine has not been invented yet. Transportation has become thoroughly advanced, with efficient steam cars and fast trains populate the world. Huge liners transport at least a thousand people each across the seas. Airships have only become larger, and gyrocopters have started making a scene. 
> 
> These innovations have all been fueled by the Artificer's Guild, who brought the Industrial Revolution to its fullest capacity. However, they were not able to stem the world powers hiring private artificers and scientists who have begun developing machines of war. The most horrific being soldier automata which have started being used in armies. Who knows what military secrets each nation is developing behind closed doors?
> 
> In the next chapter's notes, I will describe the political setup of the world.

“It is said that the night brings counsel, but it is not said that the counsel is necessarily good.”  
-Jules Verne

 

Apparently, the definition of “fancy” meant entirely two different things between Tweek and his dad. His father was wearing a developing fashion called white tie, which consisted of a black tailcoat and trousers, a black pair of oxfords, a white shirt, and a white, piqué waistcoat. Topping it off was a bow tie as white as snow and his favourite copper lily pin. To be fair to him, it was an improvement over the attire he was wearing on their arrival, but compared to the others with their myriad collection of extravagant colours and expensive garments, it was still lacking.

 

Currently, he was sat with his dad in the back of the latest development in the steam-powered car the most intelligent of artificers in the guild has to offer. It was a beautiful piece of machinery, representing the early beginnings of a possible future where one in every three white, middle-class family would travel in these. That was mostly due to the fact that these vehicles would be expensive as hell and there would be no hope for anyone not in Europe or America to afford one.

 

The prototype had a sleek body and was unlike any previous design seen. The new look was wholly designed from scratch, having few similarities to the design of what was basically a carriage with motors. For one, it was the first of its kind to fully enclose the passengers and the drivers instead of being open to the elements. Big, rectangular windows allowed everyone a clear view of their surroundings. The body was made less boxy by creating slight curves, making it more pleasing to the eye. For the other thing, every vital component revolving around the mechanisms of the vehicle were hidden, either under the hood in the front where the engine is or under the car. The last big thing was that while the body was mostly made of wood, they had made use of steel frames instead of wooden ones. For this particular prototype, the artificers with them on the trip gave a fresh coat of paint. On a suggestion by his father, they chose dark green as the colour.

 

As Tweek stared out the window, and his eyes darted all over the streets of Londinium to focus on various objects, his dad wondered out loud, “You know, my fashion is fine. It’s going to be very popular in the future.”

 

Tweek shook his head. “Gah! You’re wearing the future at a party where people are stuck in the past!”

 

“Well, I suppose that’s correct.” Richard chuckled. “Though, we artificers are supposed to be the bastions of progress.”

 

Tweek scoffed. “So my outfit is representative of that fact?” Currently, he looked like some sort of prince with the elegant attire he was wearing. It was fitting to his form, and the outfit was white to represent the symbolic nature of the guild being neutral and peaceful. A bit different than the typical green clothes he always wore, but his dad didn’t want him to be confused with the Russian nobility.

 

Richard simply responded, “You’re special.”

 

Of course, he would say that. As they lapsed back in silence, Tweek went back to looking out the window. People walking in the street stopped to gawk at their transportation, evoking murmurs with the forming crowd lining the streets. It was beginning to resemble a sort of procession. Automatically, he began tapping his foot due to a large number of people joining the crowd. Some people even waved through the windows of the buildings. In response, Tweek raised his hand a little to nervously wave back.

 

The people here were interesting, mostly consisting of poor folk. They wore faded rags and mostly bore dark dyes, camouflaging any dirt and soot that landed on them. Men, women, and children were all visible, and they were all similar in style. Many were still working, even with the special occasion.

 

Apparently able to read Tweek’s mind, his father said, “For being the richest city in the world, it seems to be the most downtrodden.”

 

“Yep.” That was all Tweek responded with on the matter. Realistically speaking, he knew they could do little about it.

 

“Hey, Tweek?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“You brought the Queens’ gift, right?”

 

Ah, yes. The Queen’s gift for the anniversary. “It should be in the back.”

 

“Good, I’m quite proud of you.”

 

The gift was a real work of art and a real work of beauty. Once the guild found out Richard was invited, they decided that a gift needed to be commissioned to show goodwill; however, his dad introduced a caveat. His father said to the council that his son would be one to make the gift, so it would be some sort of challenge. Thus, Tweek worked for months on the project. Due to the number of hours it took, he was pretty sure he gained caffeine addiction from the amount of coffee he consumed to get through many sleepless nights in order to make the deadline. It was worth it in the end: he just about finished in time. It would have to be one of his crowning achievements in life, and he was superbly proud of his handiwork. Everything worked perfectly, and there was no sign of mechanical failure. Currently, his work laid in a small box in the trunk. He could only hope that the Queen would enjoy it.

 

“Thank, thank you.”

 

“No problem, son.” He gave Tweek a hard pat on the back. “Now, let’s see if we can give the crowd a show.” He leaned forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder, a burly man who happened to be from the city.

 

“What do ya want, sir?”

 

“How clear are the roads today?”

 

“I dunno, looks clear to me - other than the people.”

 

His father crossed his arms on the driver’s seat and smiled mischievously. “I was thinking… Let’s see if we can go over a mile a minute. We are running a bit late.”

 

“I see what you are sayin’. ‘Old on to ya seats!” He gave out a hearty laugh as he honked the horn to get everyone’s attention. Then, he slammed on the pedal as the engine let out a loud putt-putt as it roared to life. Soon, they zoomed down the cobbled streets as the crowd they left behind cheered and clapped.

 

The wheels clacked as the vehicle bobbed along the uneven roads at incredibly fast speed. The driver proclaimed, “Oi, sir! We’ve topped 70!”

 

“Very good, now make sure we don’t die. We don’t want that to be the headlines today.”

 

That shot Tweek’s anxiety straight up through the roof and into the atmosphere. He internally prayed to whatever higher power existed that he wouldn’t perish in a fireball or whatever happens whenever a car crashes. The driver honked multiple times as it drove through streets both narrow and broad, uphill, downhill, and flat. He expertly weaved through the other vehicles - mostly horse-drawn carriages still - much to their ire. He swore that he heard a few insults fly their way before they themselves almost literally flew off into the distance. A sudden jolt upwards made him let out an involuntary shriek as he flew a few inches off the seat and landed back down hard.

 

“Hope you’re doing alright son!”

 

Tweek responded with silence as he gripped onto the armrest on the door. Maybe he could suggest some sort of safety feature keep the passengers intact at a point in the future.

 

On the not so fun journey to the palace, they nearly hit countless carriages, and a horse almost ran into them. Furthermore, they had just about missed running over a pedestrian who quickly dived to the side when the driver gave a long honk that probably woke everyone that had fallen asleep. At one point, they whizzed past a pair of bobbies with their iconic black uniform and tall black hat. Tweek had to suppress a laugh at the look on their faces when they just stood there staring at the bounding car.

 

At last, they slowed down as the gates to the palace, and the structure itself was in sight. He sucked in a breath when he viewed the towering building.

 

“Holy shit,” he said under his breath.

 

The palace was fucking huge and was several stories tall. It dwarfed many buildings he had seen in Londinium and must be at least two dozen stories. If it wasn’t dark enough already, the building cast a large shadow over its surroundings, but the lighting system made the palace seem a lot friendlier. The lights, which appeared to be electric, were placed all over the grounds and the stately home, creating bright, white light in dark places where no natural light was able to reach. The Royal Guard patrolling the fenced off palace grounds made the scene a lot less grim by adding a splash of the colour red to the picture.

 

The structure itself resembled a castle in some ways. Distinct towers rose up along the sides of the building, capped by both peaked and rounded roofs. There were detached offshoots that were connected by a bridge, and the palace certainly had an air to it indicating it served a defensive purpose. In other ways, it resembled a Neoclassical architecture with its Doric columns and external façade reminiscent of other palaces in Europe. And there was a distinct architectural style that resembled the new ways with the use of brass, steel, and glass. All merged in a conglomeration that somehow, in the end, didn’t seem monstrous or hideous. Only, Tweek found it somewhat intimidating. An enormous airship that probably dwarfed the guild’s lay docked at the top of the palace. It was the HMY Albion, the monarch’s massive and personal dirigible. Personally, Tweek found it extravagant and guessed it was wildly inefficient in its fuel use, but he didn’t think that the Queen who commissioned it was worried about costs.

 

After the guards confirmed who they were and checked over their invitation card, they were waved in and the gate slowly opened due to the fact it was done manually.

 

“Hey, son. Look at me.”

 

Tweek turned towards his dad, who straightened a few things on his outfit for him.

 

“Looks like you’re all ready to go. Don’t be nervous and socialise.”

 

“Yeah, ’cause I like socialising with others.”

 

Richard shook his head as the car queued up in the line of carriages that were there, waiting to be dropped off.

 

* * *

 

The last time Stan was able to visit the Isles of Albion was ten years ago when he was a wee lad. That was during the Queen’s Golden Jubilee: the 50th anniversary of her coronation. In all honesty, he didn’t remember too much of it. He quite enjoyed Albion; however, he was unable to visit due to a significant change in political circumstances in the late 1870s. It was a shame. Due to the state of affairs, he was only able to visit dreary Londinium. He much preferred the green hills of the countryside and the mountains in the highlands.

 

The palace was already brimming with various folk, already separating into social groups containing their friends. Typically, the groups were distinctly male or female as well, but he paid no heed to the groups. A small orchestra was playing beautiful music, loud enough for everyone to hear but still quiet enough to talk in. After dad went to find the alcohol that was being his served, his mum decided to make sure he wouldn’t embarrass them. This left him to do whatever he wanted to, so he spent it to look for a certain someone. Someone he had not seen in a few years, but he was sure she’d be here.

 

He looked all over, pushing his way through the clustered nobility and rich folk. Perhaps pushing was exaggerating. He probably repeated the phrase “excusez moi” at least twenty times. Most of their conversations flew straight through one ear and out the other. None of the words was clear to him, and he didn’t care for idle gossip anyways. They were probably all talking about boring stuff anyways and likely listening in would lower his IQ. While he was a noble - son of a king even, his fellow peers didn’t lend them to be of the best quality. They always thought themselves superior in some way or extremely smart when they probably couldn’t even dress themselves.

 

Stan could not find any sign of the black haired girl anywhere. He scoured the whole area they were given access to which was basically the entire bottom floor. Yet after what felt like an hour, his search turned up fruitless. She was not present at all, not in the magnificent ballroom of marble, not in the halls of gold and silver and fancy paintings made by artists who were probably famous, not in the lounge areas dotted around the place. As he walked through the corridor again, he checked a very intricate and ornate grandfather clock. An hour and a half had passed by since he arrived, but why were people still milling about? Surely something would have begun by now.

 

While he stared at the clock, he heard footsteps behind him and a familiar, yet more mature voice said, “Stan? Is that you?”

 

He turned around to be met by verdant, green eyes and a large amount of auburn hair that appeared to be desperately combed and neatened for the occasion. The curls couldn’t be straightened in their entirety, but it was a decent attempt. Stan also noticed the beard that was starting to grow.

 

“If it isn’t Kyle Broflovski!” Stan said with vigour and excitement, his voice echoing somewhat down the hall. Maybe that was a little too much. They both hugged each other with a loud clap on their backs and touched cheeks. First on the right, then the left, giving air kisses both time. “It’s good to see you!” he said with a laugh and a big smile as they separated.

 

“And you. It’s been years since we last saw each other. What, we must have been ten? It was during the Golden Jubilee if I recall.”

 

“Oui, oui. Exactly ten years ago as well.” He eyed the red uniform Kyle wore, a fitting complement to his hair. “So what have you been up to?”

 

“I’ve been helping out my father a lot more. Now, I basically work in the Royal Household, though I’m quite unsure of how official my position is. In all honesty, I haven’t done much than that.” Kyle paused and stared at Stan before proceeding to say, “So. About you. The Marsh family is now head of Gaul. That’s quite surprising. How the hell did that happen? Like, at all.”

 

Stan gave out a nervous laugh and scratched the back of his head. “Honestly, no idea. My dad has told me multiple times about the story, and they are all different. He likes sticking to the narrative that he won it in gambling, but I doubt that. Maybe he was liberal enough for the Liberals. I have no idea how he gets into these situations.”

 

Some minutes of silence passed by, the constant tick-tock of the clock counting for them. Kyle was lost deep in thought, staring into space, before snapping to attention and finally saying, “Maybe we could work together in the future then. Relations between the Coalition of Europa and Albion… they’re not great.”

 

Stan could sense the cogs in Kyle’s mind, quickly stirring to life as he was thinking of a plan. It seems he still had the same personality. “Hopefully, hopefully,” he plainly repeated.

 

“I’ll save those ideas for later.” Kyle still had that wide smile, his clean, white teeth slightly showing. “So, uh... Stan. Why are you out here in the hallway and not in the ballroom?”

 

“Oh yeah! One, I don’t want to be seen with my alcoholic father, who would probably find a way to make a fool of himself. Two, have you seen Wendy? I was looking for her.”

 

Stan swore he saw Kyle’s smile falter a little bit and his eyes betrayed a change of expression, but he couldn’t tell after his own damn eyes blinked. With a less confident voice, Kyle spoke with less energy and more quietly, “Oh, Wendy? Right, right. I saw her parents, the Testaburgers, right? But she wasn’t with them, and I didn’t spot her later. Sorry.”

 

Stan frowned and then sighed. His excitement finally died. He tapped his left foot two times and looked up at Kyle. At least he got to see Kyle. “Oh. That’s odd. Hey, do you know what’s happening? Isn’t the official party supposed to begin?”

 

Before Kyle could answer, they heard hurried footsteps and turned towards the source. It was Kyle’s father, who more or less looked the same to Stan, still wearing that magenta yarmulke denoting him as a Jew. There was a frenzied and worried air to his gait and Stan already felt unsettled. The heavy breathing and gleam of sweat quite clearly indicated that there was trouble brewing.

 

Gerald, stopping in front of Kyle and taking a rest by bending over slightly and holding his knees, said, “There- there you are! I’ve been looking for you. Kyle, do you know where the Queen is? She was supposed to come down!”

 

Kyle furrowed his brows and looked at Gerald like he was crazy. “Dad, why the he-, why would I know where the Queen is? That’s not my job, and I definitely don’t have the authority to check on the Queen.”

 

“Good point. Uh, come with me then. We need to check what the fuck is going on here. She was supposed to be escorted down here thirty minutes ago! Come, come.”

 

Stan muttered as Gerald turned around and started storming off, “This gives me a bad feeling.” He was unsure whether he should follow, but suddenly Kyle answered for him as he was quite literally grabbed by the wrist and dragged to follow, nearly tripping in the process. “Jesus, Kyle!”

 

Kyle didn’t respond as they both rushed to keep up with Gerald’s fast pace. Gerald shouted at two passing servants, “You two, follow me!” The group hurried down the corridors, getting curious looks from other servants and the guards stationed around the place. As they turned a corner, a servant dropped the tray of tea he was holding in surprised, spilling the contents on the marble floor. Gerald ignored this and continued on with his course. Stan wondered if he managed to memorise the entire layout of this house that really shouldn’t be this big. It was like one of those tall skyscrapers in fucking Chicago that were thirty storeys high.

 

At last, they found themselves entering a lift, breathing heavily. Not bothering to wait for the door to open automatically, Gerald opened it with celerity, throwing caution to the wind. They all piled in, closing the door as Gerald pressed a button. When Kyle realised he was still gripping onto Stan’s wrist pretty hard, he relieved him of the pressure and murmured, “Sorry.” Stan just nodded as he rubbed the now dark, red mark that formed there.

 

After what took quite a bit of time, they arrived at their floor and piled out. A few guards that were standing there in the lobby looked at them, recognising Gerald who said, “Guards, follow me. the Queen may be in danger.” Understanding the gravity of the situation, they fixed bayonets on their rifles and followed suit with Kyle, Stan, and the two servants following behind.

 

Their footsteps were quieter, due to this floor being heavily carpeted. Stan admitted to himself that it proved a far more eerie atmosphere than their previously loud and echoing footsteps. Without the chatter of servants or the guests as well, the silence was deadly.

 

After a relatively short walk where they reached a large wooden door, Gerald angrily shouted to himself, “Where are the damn guards? They’re supposed to be guarding this door.”

 

No one answered as Gerald sidled up to the door and pressed his ear against it. Furrowing his brows in concentration, he knocked after a minute. The sound penetrated through the silence, startling one of the servants. “Your Majesty? Ma’am? Are you there?”

 

He - they, waited.

 

Again, Gerald knocked.

 

Again, but twice this time.

 

“Your Majesty!”

 

Silence.

 

This time, he knocked really loud and rapped against the door multiple times.

 

Still no response.

 

He turned around and looked at the guards, communicating silently. Words were not needed to convey the situation. Gerald stepped to the side as the guards prepared to storm the room.

 

In a flash, one kicked the door open, causing Stan to wince as shards of wood fell onto the floor. The group moved in quick, with Gerald following. Stan and Kyle walked to the open door and peered through, not wanting to cross the line by entering. No one was in the room except a body, the Queen’s body, laying on a large bed. It would have seemed peaceful and would have appeared to be the Queen merely resting, but the situation and the guards betrayed that sense.

 

With no enemies in the rooms, the guards relaxed slightly, though their faces were still grimaced. They started scanning the bedroom just in case. Meanwhile, Gerald slowly walked up to the most powerful woman on Earth, whispering, “Ma’am? Are you asleep?” His voice was filled with that fake hopefulness, a bit of optimism that against all the odds, nothing was happening.

 

The poor man arrived at her bedside and shook the Queen slightly. There was no natural movement, no sign that the Queen woke up. He slowly moved two fingers to her neck, held it there, and then turned around when he was finished.

 

All the colour was drained from Gerald’s face, there was no shine to his eyes. Sweat covered his forehead, and there was this slight trembling if Stan looked carefully. As expressionless as possible, he deadpanned and announced, “An era is over. You,” he pointed at one of the servants, “go find the Prime Minister and tell him Big Ben Strikes Midnight.” He looked at the other servant. “Signal to the royal household the same message.”

 

Kyle, quite unlike himself, which Stan found unusual, timidly asked, “Dad?”

 

He released a heavy breath he realised he wasn’t holding.

 

“Her Majesty, the Queen, is dead.”

 

* * *

 

He really didn’t enjoy being here and was quite annoyed that the party was going relatively slowly. It had not even begun yet, and Craig felt like this would be one of these things where he’s forced to be outside of the comfort of his room at home past midnight. He sat at a chair at one of the scattered tables set in the ballroom, next to the brunette who was still as carefree as ever, jittering around in his seat. Craig had his arms crossed, not really paying attention to anything Clyde was saying because it probably wasn’t paramount to know. He was staring off into space. Although, that was not accurate. Mostly, he was staring at someone.

 

It was this one blond guy his age who entered the room quite a while after Craig arrived with his family and found Clyde (Actually, it was the other way around where Clyde found Craig the moment he stepped foot through the door). He had this odd movement to him, where he suddenly twitched every few seconds. Privately, Craig thought it was kind of cute. Not that he’d ever say that out loud. It’s not that he cared what came out of his mouth or what he did, it’s just that he didn’t want his dad finding out about… his preferences. His eyes followed the blond, who was taking in all his surroundings at one time as he trailed behind what he assumed was his dad, who looked very much out of place with his different style.

 

After staring for quite some time, Clyde snapped some fingers in front of his face and frustratingly said, “Craig! Craig! Are you even listening?”

 

He turned towards Clyde and simply stated, “No.”

 

“Craaaaaaaaig! That means you didn’t hear any of my awesome exploration stories! How are you supposed to know about the time I found some cool island in the middle of the Atlantic nobody discovered before? Or my expedition to Antarctica?”

 

“Jesus Christ Clyde, no offence but I literally don’t give a shit. As much as it’s great to see you again, I hate being here.”

 

“Fine, be that way. At least Bebe listens to my cool adventures.”

 

“Good for her.”

 

Craig sighed, already exhausted, and started tapping on the table. Before he could retreat into his mind again, Clyde asked, “What were you staring at anyways? You seemed focused on something.”

 

“None of your business, Clyde.”

 

“Did someone catch your fancy?

 

Craig promptly responded with a middle finger and said, “Fuck off.”

 

“Craig, you’re still the boring and rude kid I remember from when we last saw each other three years ago.”

 

“Just because you’re two years older than me doesn’t mean you get to call me kid. You have the mind of a ten-year-old anyways.”

 

“That’s not nice,” Clyde chastised. “Anyways, who is it?”

 

“It’s none of your business.” Holy shit, he hoped he didn’t have to be nagged by Clyde this entire time, as close of a friend he is.

 

As either a blessing or a curse, the father of the blond guy he was ogling lead the dude, like he was on some sort of invisible leash, towards them. With the distance between them closing, Craig noticed that blondie was carrying some kind of box. He deduced it was a gift. Craig felt Clyde staring at him, his mind slowly churning to figure out what was going on.

 

The brown-haired man said, “Hello, is it alright if you guys keep my son company? He’s new to these things.”

 

Clyde quickly piped up and said, “Sure!” He then stood up and offered a handshake. “My name is Clyde Donovan, the famed Dutch explorer.”

 

He accepted the handshake and replied, “Pleasure to meet you. Richard Tweak, leader of the Artificer’s Guild. I believe I have heard of some of your exploits in the papers.”

 

Clyde’s already wide smile was made ten times bigger from that statement “Pleasure to meet you too. Glad to hear that you know of some of my ventures. I must say it is inspiring to meet the famed Technocrat in person.”

 

“Oh, don’t make a big deal out of it. There are many artificers who have done much more than me.” Richard nudged his son. “Son, introduce yourself.”

 

Blondie here took Clyde’s hand and shook it. Well, it didn’t look like the best handshake. “H-hello, I’m Tweek.”

 

“Clyde, nice to meet you too.” Clyde looked over at Craig, seeing him still seated firmly, and said, “Oh, and my companion here is Craig. Craig Tucker. He’s being a butt today so don’t mind him. He’s not in a talkative mood.” Craig glared at Clyde as if he could kill his friend on the spot. “Don’t worry, he doesn’t bite.”

 

Richard simply smiled and said, “You be nice, Tweek.”

 

“Gah! Dad, I can handle myself.”

 

“Sure thing, son.”

 

Richard left them, and Tweek decided to take a seat, right across from Craig. Of course, he would. Thankfully, Craig was able to maintain his classic stoicism and monotone expression by not directly looking at him. Clyde suddenly said, “Well Craig, I spotted a certain someone I have to go and talk to. I know she will listen to my stories. Sorry for not talking to you longer Tweek, but it was nice to meet you!”

 

Craig realised what Clyde was doing and issued a weak protest. “Wait, Clyde! Don’t leave me here you prick.” But his words fell on deaf ears as Clyde already left the two. He swore quietly and looked at Tweek, who was looking at him curiously with big, eyes that reminded him of shining emeralds. He could easily get lost staring into them as if those eyes were drawing him in.

 

Tweek spoke, breaking him out of his trance. “H-hey uh… What was all that about?”

 

He assumed he was talking about Clyde, so he said, “Oh. He’s just like that, I guess. Always been like that since I met him. Super excited about everything. He’s a good guy though, has been ever since we became childhood friends.”

 

“Oh, I see.” Tweek had one of those sudden twitches again, though this time he squinted with one eye. “Oh jeez, I-I noticed you were staring at me earlier.” Did he notice? Oh shit. “Is-is there anything wrong? My anxiety acts up in large crowds. I didn’t expect this much people in one place! I just need a moment to calm down.”

 

“You’re telling me. And you’re fine.” He was more than fine. “I was just staring off into space because I’m already bored, nothing to do with you. At all. I just want to go home, and this party hasn’t even started yet.”

 

“You’re right. I thought we’d be super late. You think something’s bad happened? What if some tragedy happened and we’re all going to die?”

 

“I don’t think we’re going to die,” Craig stated as a matter of fact.

 

A servant suddenly tumbled into the room, breathing heavily. He ran through the crowd, his head moving around, indicating he was searching for someone. He pushed his way through the crowd as the whole room turned towards the servant, the muttering and chatter increasing in volume. He then found the person he was looking for sitting in a chair and whispered into his ear. Craig vaguely recalled that he was the current Prime Minister. The facial expression changed into one of shock, and the PM stood up, took out his cane and promptly left the room.

 

His companion muttered, “Oh god man, this is bad.”

 

Craig, for once, agreed with that sentiment. He too had an ominous feeling.

 

* * *

 

His boots boomed as he walked quickly through the corridor. The sheathed sword jittered against his leg as he marched through in quick time. Damien couldn’t help marching, it had suddenly become a habit of his during his time in the Royal Guard. He was not wearing his uniform today as he did not have time to put it on, being off-duty and all, but he managed to look at least presentable. Not that it mattered, he was only going to be visible to one person.

 

He didn’t want to break the news to the Prince, or should he say, King? Well, it wasn’t official yet. He had been quickly awakened from his small, private quarters when the code word “Big Ben Strikes Midnight” by a servant. Damien knew that the news would evoke a considerable reaction, but someone had to tell the Prince, and that person was going to be him.

 

He had no idea why the architects decided to design the wing where the Prince currently resided the way they did. Basalt and other various black stones were used, creating a dark and cold feeling which was ironic for Damien to think. The whole theme was filled with dark colours, only being interrupted by the gold that was strung around. It certainly brought a feeling of loneliness. He supposed it was fitting for its current resident.

 

Damien paused at the one-person wide ebony door and steeled himself for what he was about to say. When he decided he was personally ready, he opened the door gently and walked in. There was music playing softly from the gramophone, his most prized birthday gift. It wasn’t entirely accurate in quality, but the beauty was still there. The music was probably Mozart or maybe Beethoven. Maybe it was one of the new composers. Damien could never tell, he had musical knowledge himself. He saw the Prince, facing away from him and out the window, looking out into the night skyline of the city. His long, blond hair wrapped around his face was in perfect view of Damien.

 

“Pip?” In private, that’s what he always called Phillip.

 

“Oh, Damien!” Pip turned around, his smile ever present. “Is it time to go downstairs yet?”

 

The Prince, who still looked very young, faltered in his composure and smile once he saw Damien’s face. “Damien, can you please tell me what happened?”

 

“Pip,” he took a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” The Prince started to form a frown. “Your grandmother the Queen… She died tonight.”

 

“Pardon? D-Damien, don’t lie to me, please,” he begged as tears started to leak through the corner of his darkened, blue eyes. Damien simply shook his head. “Y-you can’t, can’t be serious. This is all a dream, a nightmare.”

 

The tears started flowing as Pip moved closer to Damien. “I didn’t want to tell you Pip. Come here.”

 

Pip all but ran to close the gap between them and Damien was surprised by the firm hug. Pip held him in a death grip as he cried into his shoulder, the stream of water getting his black shirt wet. Damien couldn’t help but think that the politicians are going to tear this boy, who just turned eighteen barely two months ago, apart.

 

He wrapped his arms around Pip, both younger and smaller than him, and rubbed his back to comfort him. They stood there like this, the music still playing in the background. All Damien could hear were the heavy sobs.

 

* * *

 

Kenny’s conclusion that something had happened was proven correct when the ginger boy had come up to him. He took a puff of the cigarette he was smoking and said, “Kyle, right?”

 

Quite clearly, he was stupified. “How do you know my name?”

 

“It’s good to know these things. Observe your surroundings. Talk less, smile more. A lot more avenues are opened that way. Now to business, you’ve come to me to talk about the Queen’s death.”

 

Kyle looked even more shocked. “H-how?”

 

“I didn’t become a detective by being clueless. You guys make it quite obvious. Why else would the Prime Minister storm out of here? And the code word you guys came up with isn’t exactly discrete. But I’m not here to criticise your tactics. You need me, as the only renowned detective in the building, to investigate the corpse and find the cause of death.” He inhaled some more smoke from the fag.

 

“Yeah. I can see why you’re a detective now. Follow me then.”

 

As he followed Kyle, Kenny started asking him questions. “So, I take it the Queen has been perfectly healthy up to this point.”

 

“Yeah, my father said this was completely unexpected. There was no evidence she would just die.”

 

“Anything odd?”

 

“She looks like she had died in her sleep, peacefully. Like I said before, though, she had no previous ailments. Also, nobody was guarding the doors, and there was no sign of the servants that were supposed to fetch her for the party.”

 

“That is quite peculiar.” Kenny started to think thoroughly, making the few connections he could. “It’s a shame the Queen died, you know. I met her once before, on a special case. She was a nice lady, though age and tragedy were starting to get to her.”

 

“You met the Queen on a previous case? How old are you? You look the same age as me.”

 

Kenny’s hand moved for the fedora that wasn’t there, being met by his hair. “Probably older than you could guess.” As they got into the lift, Kenny took the cigarette out of his mouth. “I want you to understand that I may not be able to complete the Queen’s case in its entirety. It’s not my speciality.”

 

Kyle turned his head at Kenny in question and asked, “What do you mean?”

 

“I don’t deal with just any case, not just any murder. I deal with those that seem odd, supernatural even. It’s why my private agency, the Mysterion Investigation Agency, is funded by the government of the United Commonwealths of America. I’ve had an unbeaten streak in solving cases thus far, but I am working on my big case.”

 

“Of course, every detective has a big case.”

 

“The only reason I came is that I thought I could get connections.”

 

“Right. You are odd, you know?”

 

“Thanks.” Kenny gave Kyle a grin.

 

The lift stopped, and Kenny followed Kyle through the straightforward hallway. Some guards were standing outside the open door, and he could see Gerald muttering to himself. He saw the two enter and he said, “Oh good, Detective Kenny. It was a good thing you’re here.”

 

“I suppose so. Your son already gave me the known details. I’ll check the body and see what I can conclude.”

 

“Please, help yourself.”

 

Kenny casually walked up to the bed, and sure enough, Kyle’s details were correct. The Queen very much looked like she died at rest. Her eyelids were closed, and her hands were placed on her chest.

 

“Someone moved her hands…”

 

Gerald said, “Ah, yes. I did that.”

 

Kenny just nodded. There didn’t seem to be anything usual. He asked, “Is it okay if I touch the body?”

 

“If you deem it necessary, I’ll allow it on my authority.”

 

First, he touched the head of the Queen. It was chilling. “She died quite some time ago today… Hours before anyone arrived. Why didn’t anyone check on her?”

 

“We thought people did.”

 

He lifted the Queen’s head and immediately saw something odd inscribed on the pillow where her head lay. It was a strange symbol within what appeared to be a perfect circle. A straight line had three, tentacle-like branches coming off underneath it. Most peculiar… It seems his intuition was correct and that it had something to do with the occult. He swore he saw this symbol before, but he could not recall anything. He touched it, and the emblem started fading away.

 

He took out his sketchbook and quickly drew a quick sketch of the image with his pencil.

 

 

“I fear it seems that the Queen suffered no ordinary death.”

 

He patted down the body, finding nothing until he felt the sleeves of her dress. Tucked inside, was a slip of paper. He took it and read what contents it had.

 

_If you read this Detective Kenny, I have been assassinated by my most personal enemies. I fear the time has come that I shall leave this Earth, but it may be for the best. My will and plans for what happens after lay in the drawer beside my bed. Farewell._

 

_May the sun never set on our fair empire._

 

Gerald asked, “What did you find?”

 

“She had a note. This was no simple death. She was assassinated. By who, I cannot show, nor does she say.”

 

“Assassins…”

 

“I must leave this case for your detectives, but I doubt that they will find anything. All I can say is that it is an assassination of utmost secrecy, it has been planned for a long time.”

 

“Isn’t there anything you can do?”

 

Kenny shook his head. “I will be back if I find out more, but this is just a small part that I can add to my current case. You should prepare for the future. The waters will not be calm.”

 

Kyle opened his mouth. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

 

“Dunno really.” His tone of voice changed utterly, sounding a lot more innocent and less grim. He turned into a completely different person. “I wanted to say something cryptic. Now if you need me, I’ll be consuming whatever champagne is left.”

 

And then he left to do exactly that.

 

Several minutes later, Kyle came in, stood in the middle of the room, and got everyone’s attention.

 

“Hello, ladies and gentlemen. We are sorry to keep you all waiting, but we are afraid that we have to cancel tonight’s party. Though it is hard for us to announce, it is with deep sadness to announce that the Queen has died.”

 

Instantly, the room sprung to life as people shouted and yelled. Kenny simply took a swig out of the champagne bottle he found. They demanded answers like they were entitled to them. Amazingly, Kyle stood composed amidst it all.

 

“The Royal Household cannot answer any questions at this time. You may find out more tomorrow morning when the news is posted. We request that you all leave the premises as soon as possible, as we aim to lock down the area.”

 

With that, Kyle left. People milled about, chatting to each other, trying to make some sense of the announcement. Unexpectantly, the main doors to the ballroom burst open and out came someone with short, fair hair. Since he was close to the door, Kenny could see that he was wearing a light blue naval uniform and there was a scar running through his left eye. If his information was correct, the guy was Butters who lead the Skylords. Kenny admitted to himself that he was surprised by his appearance. He did not look like what he expected. Behind Butters was a girl with long, flowing, black hair, wearing a similar naval outfit that was purple.

 

Butters loudly said, “Uh. I hope I’m not too late. Oh jeez, I had to go through security and everything. They wouldn’t let me in, and they kept saying I couldn’t park my airship above the palace. You know what I am saying? I don’t think the police like me no more because I spent an hour trying to get through the gates.” He noticed everyone staring at him in silence. “Aw nuts, did I come here at a bad time?

 

Kenny decided at that moment that perhaps he should make an acquaintance with the Skylord.

 

* * *

 

After the dumb Jew made his announcement, Cartman already began making multiple plans in his head. He could sense an opportunity, a great business opportunity with the Queen’s death. He could definitely already feel the power he could gain at his fingertips. Now, he had to set some things in motion, meet some contacts, and get everything ready.

 

He put down his playing cards and excused himself from the guys he basically cheated money out of by hiding cards in his sleeve. He had to go through some blathering retard who arrived late, so he promptly shoved him to the floor and said, “Get out of mah god damn way.” He was disappointed to see that the idiot got saved from falling face flat on the floor by another stupid blond guy.

 

The girl yelled, “Hey, you can’t do that!”

 

“You fucking bitch should learn to respect my authoritah.”

 

And with that bombshell, he left the cunts. He had things to do, and no one will get in his way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Due to the length of this chapter, I have been unable to read through it thoroughly so it may not be the best it can be. Feel free to say any criticism! Hopefully, the next chapter will come out quicker as well.
> 
> I wanted to try something out by using an image in the middle of my work. Tell me what you think!


	3. The Self-Proclaimed World’s Best Tap Dancer (POV: Kenny)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kenny is invited by Butters to drink at a pub. Fun ensues and a little bit of drinking inspires Kenny.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry 'bout the wait! This chapter, and all future chapters will be in specific POV's though some future chapters may include two or three possible viewpoints. As an FYI, there will probably be edits of previous chapters along the way as I write.
> 
> As for the political setup of this AU:  
> The world is largely dominated by Albion, an empire that stretches over 25% of the globe and which upon the sun never sets. Leading the world in landmass, navy, and airship fleet, the empire has embraced splendid isolationism and is confident that it can not be defeated. In recent years, its victory in the Zulu wars and its acquisition of swathes of land as a directly owned sphere of influence in the Qing Empire has cemented its position. In response, mainland Europe has decided to put their rivalries to the side and have created the Coalition, a direct alliance in opposition to Albion. The two powers cementing the alliance were once enemies, those powers being Gaul and Germania. The Concert of Europe binds the member nations together, a fancy name for the council consisting of all their heads of states.
> 
> Of course, not all nations are willing to collide directly with Albion, sensing a war would be disastrous. In Europe, notable neutrals are Helvetia, the Scandinavian Federation, and the Imperial Federation. The most powerful of these neutral nations being the Imperial Federation, formerly the Ruthenian Empire. The Imperial Federation is headed by the Czar who has announced strict neutrality in the affairs between Albion and the Coalition, despite having the strongest land army in the world. They are unwilling to give any indication of having a chosen side. In the Western Hemisphere lies the isolationist power of the United Commonwealths of America. While their army is considerably small, there is no doubt they could be an essential ally - that is, if they can be gained as one. However, they are still recovering from the Civil War and are loathe to participate in anything internationally. The UC is organised into 13 Commonwealths (much like the Fallout universe), compromised of states and territories.
> 
> Meanwhile, there are two enigmas to politics: the Artificer's Guild and the Skylords. The Guild, the first international organisation of its power and scale, is struggling to survive under growing nationalism and the mechanisation of war. Furthermore, it is burdened by the fact that it is pacifistic and has no military capability. With the end of the Danubian and Zulu threat, the nations of the world have begun to ignore the organisation. The Skylords, on the other hand, are in a unique position. Some may not even consider it a nation, but it is a group consisting of thousands of airship captains. Thus, it has the second largest airship fleet in the world, though it is very decentralised. With its headquarters in the floating city of Skyhold, currently positioned somewhere above the Atlantic, there is no telling of what the airship fleet with a state will do.

“Almost nobody dances sober, unless they happen to be insane.”

-H.P. Lovecraft

 

When Kenny saved Butters, he absolutely didn’t plan to do so. It was mere instinct stemming from the fact he was thinking about him when the fat asshole pushed him out of the way. He leapt from his position and rescued the captain from what would certainly be a bloody nose. As his arms held him inches from the floor, their faces were remarkably close. The world blurred around them as if time was frozen for them. For the longest time, they stared into each others’ eyes. Both glowed and sparkled and shifted into a deeper hue of blue akin to the deep ocean as their irises reflected each other. The man who was caught in his hands breathlessly said, “Butters,” which he instantly replied, “Kenny.”

 

After that, Butters invited him to meet in the morning in a pub called The Brass Bluebird. It took some time to find it with his only direction of “it’s in the airship district.” He had to ask some folks that were smoking and playing cards, clearly on break from their work. Without looking at Kenny, one of them gave him the instruction of “Airship Dock 1611.”

 

It turned out that the dock was a private compound that was walled off from the outside world by a simple, brick wall that was around 2 feet taller than him. A simple wooden gate, lit by a single gas lantern, blocked his way in. By the entrance was a bronze plaque engraved with “AIRSHIP DOCK 1611.”

 

Kenny attempted to open the heavy door, quickly finding it was locked, so he resorted to the classic knocking and shouting. “HELLO?” He hammered on the door. “Anybody here?”

 

As he continued pounding the wood with his fist, a slit open and he was met by hazel eyes. With a thick Irish accent, they questioned, “Who the hell are ye? This area for Skylords only. It ain’t for common folk to walk in.”

 

“The name is Kenny. I’m looking for The Brass Bluebird.”

 

Before the eyes could respond, a familiar female voice from last night clearly said, “Dougie, is that Kenny? Let him in, Butters invited him.”

 

“Oh, sorry, Miss Testaburger.”

 

“I told you it’s fine to call me Wendy.”

 

With another quick apology, the eyes disappeared, and after a few clicks, the door slowly opened outwards revealing a young lad with red, curly hair with two, large circular spectacles on his nose. In the narrow street behind the kid was Wendy, the lass he met yesterday.

 

“Apologies for not telling anyone you were coming. We were sort of busy preparing, there’s going to be quite a few people tonight.” She beckoned him to follow and then waved her hands around, indicating the nearby buildings. “See, this area is privately owned by the Skylords and is reserved for such. Butters wanted areas around the world where Skylords could relax away from home.”

 

“That’s a pretty cool idea.” Kenny’s first assumption was right, Butters was smart.

 

They walked past several closely-packed buildings and entered a massive tower that protruded into the sky. A staircase surrounded a lift in the middle which they of course took. He wouldn’t want to climb all those steps though he certainly could.

 

As they stood side by side, Wendy turned to him and said, “Thanks for helping Butters, it really means a lot. He’s been pushed around a lot.”

 

Kenny flashed a smile. “No problemo, ‘twas simple. I saw a damsel in distress, and I jumped at the opportunity to be the knight in shining armour. Can’t let that pretty head get ruined.”

 

Wendy raised one eyebrow at the statement which only widened Kenny’s smile. He knew full well what he was insinuating and what dangers could become of his risqué behaviour. Fortunately, the female Skylord made no comment on that. “Thank you nonetheless and…” Her voice started trailing off as her eyes darkened. “Nevermind. Just keep doing what you’re doing.”

 

He felt somewhat perturbed at that statement causing his smile to weaken, but the lift finally arrived at its destination. He quickly found out that this was no ordinary pub. It was an airship that looked brand new and very functional yet was permanently docked and turned into a floating bar where Skylords could drink in peace. It was the size of a typical Corvette with what appeared to be one main deck contained within the wooden walls though Kenny assumed it was sufficient for the particular clientele it would serve. A wooden figurehead that looked like some sort of woman spearheaded the whole vessel. It was hard to tell from where he stood.

 

Somehow, the owner managed to keep the atmosphere and mood of a proper ship while sprucing the bar way above board. It was classy, and the dimmed lighting was very much essential to that formula. However, his permanent attention was on the blond Skylord who seemingly had lustrous hair as the light shone upon it. Butters’s hair was neatly groomed, and he looked far better in this light than at the party. Kenny could just feel all of his defences failing as he was absorbed into the cutest lad he’d ever seen in his life whose eyes had the same spark as yesternight. He was enchanted entirely by all of his features. His lithe frame and somewhat slightly below average height - placing him a few inches shorter than Kenny - gave Butters an air of innocence despite the formidable scar that could never be taken away. The detective completely forgot to retain his composure and rationality, overtaken by pure emotion. A nagging voice that belonged to the other Kenny if he could call it that, told him that there was a duty to accomplish, that explained to him that he couldn’t be distracted, was closeted away. When Butters turned towards Kenny, Kenny felt his breath release at last. Only the heavens know how long he’s been holding it. His heart nearly stopped when Butters gave him a million dollar smile, a precious image that would always be burned into his mind.

 

“Uh, oh, hi Kenny! I’m so glad you could make it.” 

 

His melodious voice was music to his ears, rendering him speechless. He could barely register himself nodding.

 

A voice, which came from the bartender who Kenny never even noticed, said with a smooth, deep voice, “It seems that you have broken your guest, Butters.” He quietly gave himself a small laugh.

 

“Oh, dear. Well, that’s no matter. I think I leave a lot of people like that, you know what I am saying?”

 

“Sure thing.”

 

“Well, hopefully, a drink will get Kenny going. Can’t have a hero like him paralysed by me.” Butters winked at him. “Let’s get the ball rolling with the alcohol.”

 

Thus, the barkeep set to work while Butters patted a seat next to him. Kenny, of course, ever the gentleman graciously accepted the offer. Wendy took a chair in a corner where Kenny could feel her eyes analysing him - quite a change for the detective. That is, being the subject of scrutiny. A glass of some beverage was slid in front of him. Swiftly, he chugged some of the liquid courage sending warmth down his throat. His mind started running again, registering how much of a punch the drink possessed.

 

“Holy shit.” He sputtered out, his pupils dilating as he finally was able to get words out. “What the fuck is in here, this is way stronger than what I usually drink!”

 

Butters laughed like some sort of generic villain from a penny dreadful. “It’s just the brandy of the skies. A unique form of brandy that we make. You could probably guess, but airship captains and their crew tend to be heavy drinkers.”

 

“Yeah, I just found that out. Thank you for the early warning.”

 

“No problem! Also, thank you for finally being able to speak. Can’t have that amazing voice go to waste.”

 

Kenny’s cheeks reddened. Was Butters openly flirting with him? Maybe the strength was necessary, so he immediately downed some more brandy.

 

“So Kenny, tell me a little ’bout yourself. What story do you have to share about the man beneath, what secrets lay underneath that hat of yours?”

 

“Well, my usual line of work is solving cases. I’m a detective.”

 

Butters leaned on the bartop with one arm, his fist on his cheek as he stared fixedly at Kenny. “Oh! That sounds exciting. Got any cool stories and cases?”

 

Kenny nervously scratched the back of his head. He really shouldn’t get Butters into his dangerous business. “Well, yeah. But I can’t exactly share them.” He looked down. “They’re um… confidential. Officially, I work for the government. Thus, it’s classified.”

 

“Oh, that sucks.” There was a visible sign of disappointment. “Understand why you can’t talk about it then. Maybe later though, when no one’s around. So, where are you from?”

 

Glad for the change of subject, Kenny explained, “I’m from a quiet, little mountain town in the state of Colorado which is part of the Quad-State Commonwealth. You probably couldn’t find the place - the town I mean - on a map. Lately, I’ve been living in the city of Arkham in the Commonwealth of New England. Mainly because I got a scholarship to Miskatonic University, where I did an accelerated course of study. Now, here I am.”

 

“Miskatonic? I’ve heard about it. Don’t they deal in Occult studies?”

 

Without blinking an eye, Kenny said, “Yup,” and finished his first glass. “Now, how ’bout you precious. With a scar like that, you got to have your own stories.”

 

Butters smiled and nodded. “Born in Hawaii, subsequently kicked out by those I’m supposed to call my parents and was adopted into the society of Skylords. Somehow, I was elected by the council to serve as the current Chief. I think I can thank Wendy for that one.”

 

Kenny fumed, feeling furious at whoever Butter’s biological parents were. How could they do that to such a nice person? Nervously, he slowly prodded, “And… the scar…?”

 

Butters eyes seemed to darken, but he shook his head. “No, thankfully my parents didn’t do that. It was some East Asian pirates who thought they could defeat the fearsome Butters!” Butters tapped on the counter for another pint for Kenny. “Oh, by the way, all of the drinks will be on your tab.”

 

“Wait, what?”

 

Butters laughed that beautiful laugh again. “Just kidding, that would be rude of me.” He raised a glass and proposed a toast. “Want to drink on?” Butters winked, trying to entice him.

 

Taking it as a challenge, Kenny replied, “You’re on.” He touched the top of the glass to Butters’s, and they both chugged it down. The moment their glasses touched the hardwood on the counter, their empty glassware were immediately exchanged for full ones.

 

* * *

 

It seems that Kenny had no idea how much he drank. There was nothing quite right with his mind as it was all over the place, his thoughts not getting any clearer. He had stopped drinking at some point, the sound of the last glass he slammed onto the table ringing in his ears as he stood. Or at least attempted to stand up. He felt very unbalanced as if the airship decided to take a little cruise instead of staying in place like it should be. He leaned against a pole for support.

 

He muttered something resembling the lines of, “Where the hell is Butters?” to himself. Man, the quiet bar had suddenly become very crowded and very busy. It’s like every fucker in the city decided to jut in on his date. Wait, it wasn’t a date, it was just a friendly drink, right? There were bodies everywhere around him, some sitting, some standing. All of em were saying nonsense.

 

Butters had managed to escape and disappear from him. Jesus, Kenny really needed him. He can’t be all alone here. He perused the room, looking for blond hair. The blond wasn’t at the bar, where there actually happened to be two people bartending. For the record, Kenny wasn’t hallucinating, there were actually two. One of them was the guy who got him pissed, and the other appeared to be an automaton. When the hell did that one come out? There was also a bluebird flying around, though it didn’t seem to be a real one. Perhaps it was another automaton? Actually, that sounds right. That’s probably where the pub got its name.

 

As he was about to take another step to bust through the crowd, he felt a hand on his shoulders and that wondrous voice. “Kenny, are you alright? Oh jeez, I think you were given one too many drinks. That’s not good.”

 

Kenny turned around quickly, nearly tripping on himself before he leaned against the pole again, and protested, “I’m fine Butters. Not wasted.” Then, he saw that face again. The features that would infiltrate his dreams. His breath hitched as he witnessed once again how hot Butters was. Without thinking, he breathed, “Shit Butters, you, you look beautiful. You’re the most amazing thing I’ve seen on this Earth.”

 

Butters became as red as a raspberry pie and became very flustered. “Yep… Way too much. How are you feeling buddy?”

 

“Great because you’re here. You’re fucking fantastic.” Kenny wrapped an arm around Butters shoulders. Admittedly, it was more for support than trying to make a move. “Why is the ship flying though… S’pose to stay still.”

 

The Skylord cracked a smile at that one. “I hope this isn’t an indicator of you being on an airship in the future detective. That would be highly disappointing. As it is, this vessel is completely moored.”

 

“Can I take this dance with you?” Kenny beseeched out of the blue.

 

Butters eyes lit up and sparkled like a star in the night sky. Enthusiastically, he said, “Dance? I mean, no one’s dancing right now and there’s no music… Are you sure you’re able to dance?” Kenny nodded vigorously. “Okay, then! Also,” he moved towards Kenny’s ears, and his voice lowered to a hush. “Between you and me, I love dancing.”

 

Butters clapped loudly, gaining the attention of everybody in the room. Everyone faced the two, and suddenly Kenny felt very self-conscious with his arm still wrapped around Butters. Slowly, he retracted himself and stepped a few inches to the side. Butters announced, “My noble saviour wants to dance. Let’s liven this place up with some music!”

 

Everybody cheered and immediately an area was cleared to allow room for people to dance. A band, complete with a violin, a flute, a drummer, and bagpipes, appeared to materialise out of thin air. With the count of three, they began playing, and the atmosphere suddenly became very different. Instantaneously, the mood became jovial, and it seems everyone’s spirit rose, indicated by the whoops and hollers and clapping. People began to congregate, and some began to take the spotlight with their moves, jigging along to what Kenny believed was Irish music. Suddenly, Kenny was plagued by cold feet.

 

Butters grabbed his hand, trying to tug Kenny along, albeit he was frozen in place despite the touch sending an electrical shock throughout his body. “C’mon Kenny!”

 

“I don’t actually know how to dance,” Kenny admitted.

 

“That’s alright. Just let me and instinct guide you. You’ll be fine, trust me.”

 

He couldn’t say no to that, so he let the fair Skylord drag him to the middle of a wooden platform that served as the dance floor. As he halted both of them, he suddenly twirled around and faced Kenny directly in the face. Kenny could feel the heat rise to his cheeks as he had this had been the closest they had ever been. Then, he moved so they would become even more intimate and Butters embraced him with his unoccupied hand. His other hand then brought Kenny’s upwards. Damn, it felt like their faces were two or three inches away from each other. If he was not slightly aware of his senses, he swore he would just kiss him right then and there. How had he fallen so hard for him?

 

Letting out a breath that Kenny could feel brush on his lips, Butters calmly said “Ready? Just follow my lead.”

 

The music ramped up in intensity, and they were off. It was precarious at first as Kenny merely focused on not trying to trip and fall over like an idiot, especially by consistently eying his two feet. When Butters detected this, he murmured, “Look at me.” Kenny decided to throw the last of his caution to the wind as he did what his dance partner commanded, earning him a reward of a beaming Butters. It was actually much more comfortable to go along with the dance naturally, as he bounced around the stage. People were clapping in the background, and some were joining them, capering alongside them. Kenny felt like he was flying through the air, and he giggled like a little girl due to the exhilaration coursing throughout his body. They were wild, jumping around the room to the beat, somehow not running into anything. Butters began to chuckle. Obviously, he was not able to hold back the noises due to Kenny’s vibrant expressions.

 

“Ready for tap dancing? I’ll have you know I’m the best tap dancer in the world. Self-proclaimed at least, anyways.”

 

“Pardon?”

 

“Be ready! As I said, just do what feels right.”

 

Kenny could feel the music start to transition, so he started mentally preparing himself. His one goal was to impress Butters, and by God, he would do whatever it takes. He would never feel satisfied with poor performance. Now, it was time. Butters took the lead, opting to do the first round to serve as an example. He started with a simple yet finely executed jig, assumedly for Kenny’s sake. The percussion of the shoes hitting the wooden planks below sounded wonderful and allowed Kenny to follow the rhythm of the music. Thus, when Butters gave him his moment, he immediately got to tapping his shoes. Kenny was actually doing pretty well, and a permanent smile was painted on him. He was getting brave, so he let his feet carry him, becoming nippier every second.  His feet even lead him to do a little hop!

 

During his movements, he turned to Butters, who raised an eyebrow and let out one loud clap. Now, it was his turn, and he brought the thunder to the stage, with his ever-growing set of complicated moves. He added twirls and increased the space he worked in by moving around a lot more. After crossing his feet and clacking at least a dozen more times, it was back to Kenny who mimicked and even went further than Butters, putting his hands on his hip. People whooped and cheered at his display. Both the music and their clapping were accelerating in tempo.

 

The last bit came along where Butters and Kenny locked arms and tapped dance together. They spun round and round and round as they expelled tons of energy in their grand finale. On their last click, the crowd erupted and gave them great applaud. Kenny was fucking ecstatic, and he could only pray that he would get Butters’s sanction. He could feel the sweat on his body as a result of his hard work, his hair damp. 

 

They jumped off the stage still holding hands, but Kenny felt wobbly with the euphoria ending. Butters quietly asked, “Do you need help going home?”

 

“Yeaaaahhh… Haf’ta kind admit, feeling somewhat woozy. That was fun dancing though.”

 

“You did great, Kenny, for your first time.”

 

Kenny nodded as he led him from the airship-turned-pub, where the music was starting to pick up again. In the lift which descended at an agonisingly slow rate, he admitted out loud, “Butters, I think I’m in love with you. Never felt this way before ’bout anyone.” He looked up and stared at the ceiling. “It’s weird.”

 

Butters looked particularly amused. “Hm? You’re in love with me? I would never have guessed,” he teased.

 

“You’re a prick. I may have lost nearly all control of myself, but I can sense your sarcasm.”

 

“Aw. You know, calling me a prick is no way to get me.” Kenny frowned, his mind racing asking himself if he made a mistake. “That’s okay though.” Butters leaned against Kenny, his head resting on his shoulder. “You already got me under your spell. Keep it up, detective, and you might solve the case of gaining this intrepid airship captain as a boyfriend.”

 

Kenny’s hand instinctively brushed through Butters’ hair. It was incredibly soft to the touch, and he could just comb the hair forever. Sadly, the lift finally reached the bottom signalled by a loud clunk. Butters helped him walk in a stable manner out the door and into the crisp night air. Man, was he up there all day?

 

The two - maybe Kenny could call themselves a couple, or at least future couple - meandered slowly through the streets. It was a snail’s pace with the full effect of alcohol inflicted upon Kenny. Something didn’t feel right to him, though. His senses were starting to pick something odd about the street they were in. It was too quiet, despite it being in the middle of the night. Even though the night sky was beautiful since it was perfectly clear, there was danger nearby. He looked around, his head jittering as he scanned their surroundings. Butters, his voice stuttering, asked, “What’s wrong Kenny?”

 

The question was automatically answered when two shady folks appeared from alleyways in front of them. His sixth sense picked up that there was another one behind him. Quickly, he was formulating a plan to deal with these vagrants. The man on the right shouted, “Oi, what do we have here? A pair of nice lookin’ folks and one completely wasted.”

 

Butters attempted to scare them off. “You don’t know who you’re messing with! I’m the Chief of the Skylords!”

 

“Is that so mate? That’s even better. There are some people that want you alive. Some real powerful people with lots of money.”

 

“What.”

 

“Now enough dilly-dallying. Cooperate, and no one will get bloody hurt. At least, no one will die. Can’t guarantee no injuries sunshines. I’ll give you ten seconds to surrender willingly, so take your time to decide.” That was a big mistake. Luckily, Kenny kept a loaded gun on hand at all times. “One,” the guy started counting. “Two, three, fo-”

 

Bang, bang, bang, bang! Kenny fired three, perfectly timed, precise shots, incapacitating their three foes in no time. Wait, where did the fourth bang come from? He only used three bullets from his revolver. He glanced at Butters, who had his mouth agape. He stared at Kenny. Immediately, he sensed something was wrong and felt a sharp pain register from his chest. He turned his gaze downwards and was met by blood pouring out. As soon as he realised he was shot, his vision became hazy as the world became unfocused. Kenny started mumbling incoherent words, phrases that made no sense. Suddenly, another shot. Was Butters okay? It seemed he was fine. Kenny’s mind told him it was Wendy who rescued them from the unseen fourth foe. He was growing weak. The combined pressures of being drunk and what was probably a fatal injury caused him to collapse. Thankfully, he was caught by Butters. Weakly, he managed, “Look, I fell for you Butters.” His chest wracked with pain as he attempted to laugh, blood leaking through his mouth. Butters was saying something, something he couldn’t comprehend. He remembered saying, “It’s okay, can’t die.” Then, he was encased in darkness.

 

* * *

The whispers of the night spoke to him once more, visiting Kenny in his sleep. It was going to be another tiresome rest. An unknown figure was talking to him, telling him things, but he could put no face or defining features. To his eyes, it was a cloudy, grey person that had a water-like form.

 

In a deep, echoing voice, it said, _“CHOSEN… Your destiny… awaits. The GREAT ONE’s plan has begun. It cannot be avoided… Glimpse the promised land.”_

 

Kenny had the sensation he was drowning, but soon he found himself in the body and eyes of another. He was on some sort of small steamship, looking out the window where a terrible storm pounded against the walls, causing the rivets and steel to groan. He was in a hurricane. It seemed that the boat was in disastrous condition: any furniture not nailed down appeared to be overturned or slid to various walls, papers were everywhere, and there was glass on the floor from broken bottles.

 

The door open, and in came a faceless sailor. “Capt’n -” The name of the body he was possessing was veiled by the loudest thunder ever. “We’ve found land.”

 

Time accelerated, and now he was on the deck of the ship. The hurricane surrounded the island he could see in the distance, but there was no rain or thunder striking its beaches and rocky outcrops. The island was located in the dead centre of the storm, where it lay calm despite the dark, ominous clouds that loomed over the sanctuary, preventing most sunlight from gracing the land. It was, indeed, a peculiar place. Monolithic, black stones were dotted around.

 

He commanded not in his own voice, “Alright… We should moor here, patch up the ship, and wait for the storm. That’s the best idea, I think.”

 

The group camped on the beach, pitching temporary tents and starting fires. Though, when they went to chop wood, they found the wildlife was not anything like they’ve seen. Trees were gnarled beyond relief and covered with mossy vines. Strange flora and fauna and unusual creatures populated the island. The animals they saw… were not ordinary. There existed no description that could describe them acutely other than convoluted similes and metaphors. One of them looked like an experiment that had gone very wrong in trying to combine a platypus and an armadillo with the addition of a bird’s beak. Weird lifeforms mixed with seaweed that seemed to come from underwater were scattered around the island. They were disgusting and gooey and by all means, shouldn’t be able to exist on the surface.

 

In the night, dead fish, squids, octopuses, and even a whale were beached. Some were mangled beyond recognition. Some of the crew had gone missing, so Kenny’s host decided to mount an expedition to the centre of the island to find their whereabouts. The vision zoomed forwards where he was stood in some temple made of the same black stones that were around the island. The architecture was defined by cyclopean masonry and non-Euclidean geometry bewildering the temple’s guests. Faces carved out of stone slept in the walls and gazed into them..

 

Around them lay several dead… monsters, their blood splattered all over the floor. One could wonder if they were created by God or even Satan. It was like they were the result of a genetic lottery, where a bored being spun a wheel several times and merging all the results into one being that made zero sense. One of the missing sailors was found, quite dead. However, it was not the work of the monsters. While the attack marks on the body were random and frenzy, the eyes were wholly gouged out, blood leaking from the face. The dark holes stared into their souls. “Jesus Christ,” his host exclaimed. “I think I want to go home after this. This island is not safe.”

 

Before anyone could take another step, this horrific non-human scream penetrated their ears, causing all of them to clutch their heads. Everyone cried out in agonising pain, and some fell on their knees to the floor. What ensued was complete and utter chaos and madness, as the crew slowly started turning on each other. The captain was backed into a wall as one of the squad hungrily gazed at him and was shambling towards him like a zombie. “Jan, what the hell are you doing. Stand back!” 

 

Jan keeled as he was shot by another person, who yelled, “Captain… It’s whispering things to me. Get out of here!”

 

The vision was blurry for Kenny prompting to the following events to be unclear. As he approached the temple exit, his host tripped on a tiny, shitty twig and he fell on his back. Immediately, something human-like jumped on him, about to tear him to shreds.

 

* * *

Kenny was jolted awake. “Damn visions…” he muttered. “I need my sleeping pills.” He analysed his surroundings and saw he was in a relatively lovely wooden room on the most comfortable bed he’s ever had the chance to lay on. Where was he and what happened? His head was pounding something fierce, both from the hangover and the nightmare. He tried sitting up and groaned in pain. Oh, that’s right. He was shot. It didn’t seem like he died, though. He could feel the air on his skin, and Kenny realised that his chest was bare. A white cloth stained red with his blood was wrapped tightly around his bullet wound.

 

He heard the squawking of seagulls and noticed that there was a window, allowing him a direct view of the sky. It was bright, and sunlight was streaming into the room, allowing him to see the tiny dust particles. Obviously, he was in an airship cabin and by the superior power of deduction, he was sleeping in Butters’s bed. His cheeks reddened slightly, even though no one was around. Bearing the pain, he pushed the blanket off of him and swung his feet onto the wood. The planks creaked and groaned under his weight as he slowly stood up. 

 

He hobbled, slowly getting used to walking again, towards the door. Kenny had a job to do. He couldn’t lie idly while the world was still spinning. On a desk to his right, he noticed a new newspaper fresh off the press. A quick skim read “QUEEN ASSASSINATED DURING DIAMOND JUBILEE. Grandson, Philip Pirrup (taking the regal name Philip), to take the throne of Albion. Philip is the only direct descendant alive after a horrific airship accident caused the first descendants of the former Queen, including his parents, to die. It is the end of an era and the beginning of the what many are beginning to call the Philippian Era…”

 

Kenny didn’t bother reading the rest of the front page article. It only merely confirmed that events were happening without him. He approached the door and just about to open it, his ears picked up a conversation between Wendy and Butters.

 

“...Butters, you need to be careful.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, I know Wendy. I may be trusting but I’m not helpless. Gosh, I just hope Kenny wakes up. He’s been in bed for three days.”

 

That was his queue to open the door. He slowly pushed the door open as Wendy sighed and gently said, “Just be careful… That’s all I’m asking.” Wendy saw Kenny enter and exclaimed, “Kenny, you’re awake! Jesus, what are you doing walking around like that?”

 

Butters spun on the spot in just a second and ran to Kenny. He was assaulted by a firm hug, and he grunted in pain as Butters cried, “I’m so glad to see you awake! I’m sorry I couldn’t deal with those bastards and that I allowed you to be shot.”

 

Kenny choked out a laugh. “I’m okay love. I’m okay, it’s okay. Just… relax on the hug please.”

 

“Oops.” Butters relaxed and let go of Kenny, moving back a bit. “Why are you up? You should be in bed resting.”

 

Kenny stared at the floor, shuffling his feet. “It’s… just that I have things to do.”

 

“Kenny! You just got shot!”

 

Wendy coughed slightly and announced, “I’ll leave you two alone.”

 

After she left them, Kenny felt incredibly guilty. He was just abandoning Butters, wasn’t he? “I’m sorry… I, I have a duty to perform.”

 

“Are you running out of time or something? I can’t believe you just got shot and the moment you wake up, you’re just going to wander the big ol’ world like nothing happened. Stay here… please… It won’t be long.” Butters was basically begging, somewhat like a puppy. “That night, you opened my eyes to a whole new world. I realised,” His voice reduced to above a whisper. “I… love you.”

 

Fuck… Butters was about to cry. Kenny put his hand under Butters’s chin, pushing his head upwards. They stared directly into each other’s eyes and Kenny slowly close his as he moved his lips towards Butters’s forehead, where he placed a soft kiss. As he backed away, Kenny puled, “I love you too. But, but…” His heart ached. “I have to go. I can’t stay.”

 

Butters let out a strangled laugh and shook his head. “You’re an enigma detective. If, if you can’t stay a few days… Come back soon, okay? Don’t just leave me.” He pointed with his head. “I got you clean clothes.”

 

“Thanks.” He went over to the clothes which were placed on a chair and changed into them. After he put on the shirt, he just realised he was basically naked for a few seconds in front of Butters.

 

“Uh, Kenny.” There was a tinge of pink visible on his face. “I gave you papers indicating you’re a Skylord, so you have full access to all our services and Skyhold, our fair city. I admit that I don’t travel as much as I used to, especially with my job, so you’ll probably find me there.”

 

“Thanks again. Hey, don’t worry. I’ll write you letters whenever I can.” Kenny took in one last look at the Skylord and left for the door.

 

“Wait!” Kenny turned around to witness Butters running up to him again. He hugged Kenny back, this time with less force, and gave him a surprise kiss on the lips. It only lasted a few seconds, but damn, he had the thought of staying pop into his brain. “Goodbye.”

 

As he left for the door, Wendy walked up to him and remarked, “Kenny, I know you mean well and you’re intelligent, but… take care of Butters. I’m on your side but,” her voice darkened. “Don’t do anything that will hurt Butters.”

 

With that message, Kenny couldn’t help but shiver as he left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! The tap dancing scene was heavily inspired by the scene in Titanic, so I hoped you enjoyed it. Of course, I couldn't end things that happily.


	4. Meet Stripe (Craig)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Tucker Family has decided to host the Tweaks as guests. Embarrassing stories are shared and Craig meets a new friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all enjoy this week's chapter. Have a good day/afternoon/evening/night wherever you are!

“There is an innocence in admiration; it is found in those to whom it has never yet occurred that they, too, might be admired some day.”  
-Friedrich Nietzsche

 

“The funeral of the late Queen is happening in one month apparently,” Craig’s dad read audibly in his typical apathetic tone. His chubby, round face was entirely secreted by the white paper with only a tuft of his sunset orange hair peeking above the crisp ink that was sprawled across the back. The towering head of the household, as his dad could be considered a giant with his abnormal height of six foot and five inches, sat at the end of the neatly set up dinner table. As though he was making a statement and not a question, he asked, “One would think that is somewhat early, no?” Craig often speculated if his dad actually gave a damn about the contents of the paper, whether it was merely habitual busy work or not. The real quandary into his analysis is that his father kept trying to include others in his readings.

 

His mother, who also loomed above her peers and even men albeit smaller than his dad by a mere two inches, introduced herself to the dining hall by chiding, “Thomas! Put the paper down! It’s rude to read that at the table, especially in front of our guests. Besides, no politics at dinner.” She stood erect, her hands firmly placed on her hips like she was scolding a child. If Craig was honest, he was more apprehensive of his mum than his dad because of her sudden temper. She could really brew up a storm if something had ticked her off.

 

Craig was somewhat frustrated by his mum at the moment. The guests she was referring to were none other than the Technocrat and his son, blondie. Well, Tweek. After introducing Tweek to her, mum graciously invited both of them to stay after finding out that they had no permanent place due to the Queen’s sudden demise at the hands of her unknown assailants. Since the funeral was so early (it had been announced privately before it made the newspapers), his parents decided that they could stay with them at grandma’s cosy manor, located a morning’s ride to the north of the mourning capital. She had bought the Jacobean manor house as a retirement, its manageable size a tremendous boon for her. It was definitely not the grand marble mansions of the uber-wealthy with their lands stretching for miles, but it was home. Hell, Craig considered it more of a home than the central Tucker estate.

 

Unfortunately, Craig could not feel relaxed at all, apprehensive at his newfound crush staying over who was currently perched in a chair directly opposite of him. Thanks to his father, Craig had little experience in dealing with his emotions, especially of this nature. So, he did what he always did. Observe silently while maintaining complete and utter stoicism, leaking little of the turmoil inside him.

 

Thomas folded the newspaper, placing it on the grey, metallic tray a servant held with vigilance. “It is quite important that we talk about this stuff,” he said quite in an indifferent manner such that it seemed that he didn’t actually want to persuade anyone. “The issue is, Laura, that the funeral is being made political. Why else is it being held so early? Now, I have heard from some friends that the coronation of King Philip, long may he reign, is next month. The only reason is that the boys in Parliament are preparing for the elections in January. This Mitch Connor fellow I’ve heard about is seeking to gain leadership of the Conservatives.”

 

Laura frowned rather visibly. “Not now, Thomas.”

 

“Fine, then. I’m the only one who cares about what happens to Albion.” Without much of a second thought, his dad flipped off his mum, reprising an immediate rebuttal. Like a chain reaction, Tricia flipped off both of them while Craig sighed, giving the middle finger to all of them for being idiots. What a lovely introduction to their family, a front-row seat to the ancient Tucker tradition of flipping the bird.

 

“Laura sweetie, please take your seat,” an elderly voice said with kindness and gentleness of a proper posh lady. It was his grandmother, saviour of the Tucker fortune. She was relatively healthy, looking young even in her seventies. Barely a wrinkle touched her skin, her face as smooth as the surface of a marble ball. Her grey hair was luscious and neatly styled, the short hair, in comparison to her daughter-in-law, wrapped naturally around her ear and the back of her head. She strolled to her chair without a lapse in her step, located in between Tweek and his mum who had listened to grandma’s request without protest. “Now son,” she turned to Craig’s dad. “Let us not seem rude to our guests. They are Artificers, quite important ones I must say, after all. Now let us eat dinner if that’s alright, Mr Tweak.”

 

Richard let out a small chuckle, particularly amused with the situation. “That’s fine, Mrs Tucker. Don’t worry about yourselves. Helen, my wife, and I can get to quite the mischief. Isn’t that right Tweek?”

 

Tweek let out an involuntary twitch. “Yes, dad. You two are terrible.”

 

“Wait, don’t you dare not include yourself, young man. You can become quite the troublemaker.” As he began to describe a specific anecdote which was no doubt embarrassing as Tweek displayed visible discomfort by furrowing his brows, servants began flooding them with food, the savoury smell entering Craig’s nostrils. “When Tweek was around ten years old, there was this interesting phenomenon of his underwear just happening to disappear.” Tweek groaned loudly in discomfort. Despite the objection, Richard carried on with the story. “So, one day he told me that these magical created he termed ‘Underpants Gnomes’ were stealing all his drawers and his other undergarments. To play along, I came up with this whole mythos about them, gave them their very own kingdom, and came up with some basic history. My son totally believed me and said to me while the family was having dinner, ‘We have to declare war on the Kingdom of the Underpants Gnomes.’” Craig’s sister started laughing, and the story earned quite a few chuckles from both his mum and grandma. Grinning, he continued, “Helen just looked at me while I just nodded at Tweek and drank my cup of coffee.” He then looked up, as if remembering something else. “That cup was mild, mild like that first splash of sun on April morning. A perfect blend.”

 

“Dad, don’t say your weird metaphors now.”

 

Richard peered at Tweek and blinked. “Anyways, I decided to cause some mischief myself by sneaking into his room late at night and stealing it myself. You should have seen the expression on his face when I was caught red-handed, it was absolutely hilarious. It’s like… the look a dog gives if you kick it. You know, we never did discover the original culprit.”

 

Tweek just slammed his forehead at the table, causing the cutlery and plates to rattle slightly. The mood had quickly lightened due to the tale and dinner began to become lively. There was a general sense that Richard and Tweek might have just been extended family that hadn’t visited in a long time as people smiled around the table. Even his dad seemed to have relaxed somewhat.

 

Tricia, the little bastard, suddenly said, “You should hear some of the stories of my brother.”

 

Instantly, he lifted his middle finger. “Fuck off Tricia.” They did not have to get into this.

 

Tricia ignored him and continued saying, “While he may seem like the most boring, cold-hearted person in the world which he is, by the way, he can be entertaining at points.”

 

Craig, his lips still firmly neutral, glared at her. Then, of course, because the universe decided it was grill Craig day, his mum teased, “Oh yes. Craig has had quite the moments.”

 

“Mum. No,” he warned.

 

She swirled her glass of red wine before sipping it, the crimson liquid barely experiencing a change in height before she put it down. “So, the story goes-”

 

“No,” Craig protested.

 

“-that Craig read a book by Jules Verne. I believe it was called _From the Earth and to the Moon_.” Oh god, not this story. It was one of his worst memories, a weak spot in his life. Slowly, Craig sank into his chair in an attempt to disappear into thin air. This was the worst day ever. “So, Craig just happened to be inspired by it and nearly got himself killed.”

 

His dad spoke, seemingly taking a sudden interest in the conversation. “Oh, is this the same story I think you’re talking about?” Craig couldn’t believe his turn of events. He saw that Tweek had stopped moving so much and was starting to stare at him too.

 

Tricia nodded. “Yeah, the one where he was really foolish and should have died in all honesty.”

 

Richard leaned back into his chair, crossing one of his arms and putting his other hand on his chin. “If I hear this correctly and the fact that I have read that novel, this eventually leads to Craig attempting to launch himself out of a cannon to reach the Moon.”

 

Laura exclaimed, “Bingo. Lord knows where he actually got the equipment from.”

 

“He probably borrowed it from that circus that came to Brycgstow,” Thomas reasoned. “Let’s just say we found Craig in a tree, charred and barely alive after hearing a loud boom.”

 

Tricia snickered and taunted Craig while the adults had a good laugh out of the whole affair. At that point, Craig’s patience had run out. He stood up, his chair scraping along the floor as it was pushed back and said with just the slightest hint of annoyance, “I have lost my appetite. I am leaving now.”

 

Craig stormed off to the balcony, barely hearing his grandma say, “Tweek is it dear? Can you go see Craig and make sure he’s okay?” He passed through the wooden hallways since the interior was primarily made of the material, past the various paintings that incited the familiar homely feeling. It was a very natural house, with a warm tone to the decor. A great many flowers lived within the walls, greeting him as he breezed past them. Craig slipped inside his room which had its own viewing deck. The moment he opened the doors to the starry night sky, he could feel the refreshing countryside air blow into his face as it rushed inside the room. The view reinvigorated him, being able to sense the fresh air on his skin and being able to see the stars out in clear view, the picture of the cosmos illustrated for him to see. Already, the chaos of his mind was set to rest, the internal anger and frustration diminishing. To complete the process, he pulled out a fag and lit the cigarette.

 

In only a minute, Tweek managed to find his way to where Craig was on the behest of his grandmother, smoking and quite literally staring off into space. Craig continued to lean on the stone railing, pretending not to notice Tweek join him as company. Piping up, the blond said, “Uh, hey.”

 

Craig turned slightly so he could see the other in his peripheral vision, gesturing with a slight upward tilt of his head to acknowledge his presence and greeting. He awaited what the guy had to say and had some interest in what Tweek had to say.

 

Eventually realising the smoker wasn’t going to say anything, Tweek continued, “Are you okay?”

 

“Yup.”

 

“Does your family embarrass you all the time like that?”

 

“Yup.”

 

There was a slight mark of frustration that grew in Tweek’s voice. “Will you answer with something other than a one-word response?”

 

“Probably not,” Craig let out a barely noticeable smirk. Then, he turned towards Tweek and blew smoke into his face.

 

Immediately, Tweek coughed while he squeezed his eyes shut and turned away, flailing his hand to get rid of the smoke. Vexed, Tweek said, “What the hell was that for!”

 

“Look, kid. I’m not in the mood for conversation. Sorry.” That was true. Just because he… may be romantically interested in the guy doesn’t mean he’d change his behaviour for him. As it was, the stunt pulled off by his family had placed Craig in an unpleasant mood. Unlucky for their guest who had to just deal with it.

 

Tweek whole body spasmed slightly, and his eye twitched. “Gah! I’m pretty sure I’m the same age as you are, so don’t call me kid.”

 

Craig actually found himself somewhat guilty and found it ironic he used such a comment. That feeling was rapidly shoved somewhere else. He shrugged, responding, “Maybe Clyde, the bugger, is finally rubbing off on me. He calls me kid.”

 

“Is Clyde close to you?” Tweek asked like he was trying to insinuate a more specific question.

 

What did that mean? It sounded like an innocent enough question but was there a deeper meaning, was Tweek implying something? Craig decided he was reading too much into his query. “He was, still is, a… good friend. Then, he began adventuring and his expeditions, so we saw each other less and less. Then, the whole politics thing came up with Albion and the Coalition. I guess time and our different futures separated us.” Craig started reflecting on his friendship, gazing up at the sky before saying, “It was nice seeing him again, but he seems to have changed somewhat.”

 

They lapsed back into the still hush of the night, the only sounds being the leaves rustling in the breeze. The quiet was not quite so awkward as before, and both of them seemed to enjoy the silence for a few minutes. Craig’s thoughts wandered to Clyde. Privately, he admitted that he did have a minuscule crush on him when they were childhood friends, but that’s only because he was just discovering himself and there wasn’t exactly anyone he was comfortable talking to, especially about sexuality. Society, especially the upper echelons of society, disapproved of queer behaviour. His father was already suspicious of Craig being queer since he never actively pursued marriage. Not that it mattered, he didn’t pursue any relationship, not even telling his feelings to the Dutch explorer. Nothing came of that in the end anyway, especially when Clyde met Bebe. God, Clyde would not shut up about her. That… was a terrible time to behold. The worst of it was Clyde asking him for advice. How the hell was Craig, who himself admitted (not out loud) was emotionless, supposed to know how romance works? Anyways, there was something somewhat off about Clyde and his recent conduct. The weird things he randomly brought up with no irrelevance to their current conversation, and there was a strange, vacant look to his eyes. But before he could decipher the smattering of dialogue, he could remember, Tweek interrupted his train of thought.

 

“Craig?” He snapped his fingers right in front of his face. “Craig? You, you were beginning to zone off.”

 

Craig blinked a few times before taking another puff. “Oh. So it seems.”

 

Tweek fiddled with his fingers, trying to decide a course of action. “Can I ask you something?”

 

He waved the lad on. “Go ahead. Can’t hurt.”

 

“Why did you leave like that?”

 

It was quite an abrupt question. Craig sighed deeply, mulling over whether to tell him anything. After all, he wasn’t obligated to give Tweek an answer, even… Nevermind, it wasn’t the time for that spiralling line of thought. It wouldn’t hurt. With his two fingers, he pulled the cigarette out of his mouth and blew smoke, this time into the sky. The embers on the end glowed bright red in the dark. “Well. I can say a few things. It’s not that interesting, though.” He paused but continued when Tweek made no comment. “Since I was a small lad, growing up on our family estate, there was this big, grassy hill.” While Craig was recounting a fond anecdote, he was 90%, no 99% certain that his voice still carried the same monotonous voice. “I used to climb it all the time because there was this most amazing view of the stars. You could see the vast cosmos presented before your very eyes, all the constellations and stars. So, I started reading into scientific works of astrology like Galileo and Kepler, and I’ve taken an interest in the newfound science fiction genre as you heard before.”

 

“Wow.” Tweek sucked in a breath, somehow finding some sort of inspiration from his expressionless speech. “You know, you’d make a good artificer. We’re looking into the secrets of the galaxy.”

 

Craig was somewhat taken aback, a brief look of surprise coming out for half a second before regaining composure. Slowly, he shook his head and simply said, “Can’t,” even though he wasn’t sure if that was even an offer being made.

 

Tweek pushed him onwards, asking “Why?”

 

Craig scoffed at the question before angling his head towards the sky once more. “I’m not being interrogated here, am I? I think I’ve said enough about myself. Now it’s time for me to ask you a question. In exchange.”

 

“O-oh. Sure, go ahead.” Tweek shifted a little bit in evident surprise by the tables being turned on him. He shouldn’t have expected to get a significant amount of information from Craig Tucker, one of the most impersonal people in the world.

 

“What’s with that box you kept carrying around?”

 

Tweek’s eyes lit up at the question, and he started jittering about in hyperactivity. “Letmeshowyou!” he threw out of his mouth like wildfire, Craig just able to process it correctly. Before he could say something, the blond scrambled off and ran from his view into the house. Craig sighed, wondering if he should follow. Before he could contemplate making a decision, the still twitching artificer returned with the box which was ornate and embroidered with some amount of gold. He flipped himself so his back was against the railing so he could have a clear view this time. Craig wasn’t an expert in forestry, but he was confident that it was made of a sort of exquisite tropical wood from the depths of Africa or something exotic-sounding like that. It was fairly large despite the fact it could obviously be carried around causing him to ponder how much it weighed. Tweek looked up at him, and Craig responded by lifting an eyebrow, silently telling him to open it.

 

What Craig witnessed was the most fantastic sight he had seen in his entire life. He could feel his brain explode with feelings, and the excitement was building up rapidly, about to burst like a boiler with too much pressure. For a rare moment, there was tone and emotion in his voice, a hint of elation. He definitely became more animated, and he had stopped leaning. “Is, is that a guinea pig?”

 

Tweek looked at him, puzzled. Of course, he noticed Craig’s immediate change. “Uh… yes. It’s automata in the form of a cavy. It’s somewhat bigger than average due to limitations. As it stands, we aren’t able to miniature the mechanics enough to accurately show its proper size. Not without organic, I mean animal, components being used. That’s outlawed though, especially due to the Zulu Wars.”

 

Craig moved closer to the box that lay on the hard floor, kneeling down to take a closer look. It was sleek and made of that shiny brass everyone seemed to like so much. The mechanical animal was slender and appeared to be closed off to the elements, the internal wires and the like completely invisible, only accessible by what Craig assumed to be hidden panelling. He moved his shaking hands towards the specimen, stopping short of picking it up. He tilted his head in question towards Tweek, who nodded, giving him clearance to pick up the machine. Slowly, he picked up the cold bundle of metallic materials, expecting it to be cumbersome. However, he was surprised by how light it was. It wasn’t light as a feather, but it wasn’t hard to carry around. Then again, Tweek was able to take it around with the machine in the box, and Craig knew that Tweek wasn’t the most muscular person in the world. The size of the imitation of the real thing was large yet could fit neatly on his lap. He could still, obviously, carry with two hands. The accuracy of the design was impeccable, with eyes made of glass, little ears made of metal, a nose, and strands of… some material that resembled whiskers. The feet were also remarkably similar to the real species. With glowing praise, he said, “It’s quite amazing that you’ve built this. I absolutely love it.” Craig genuinely meant that. “I’m actually a big fan of guinea pigs since I saw them as part of someone’s menagerie, and I wanted to keep one as a pet, but my parents said no.”

 

Tweek had a broad smile planted on his face with a minimal trace of the previous twitching. “I modelled him after the cavies back in Buen Ayre since there are tons of them. Since it’s where the council sits and basically acts as the centre of all artificing, I thought it would be a good representation of our people. It was for the Queen, you know, but she currently lies in a coffin.” Craig found it was quite a morbid joke even for him, but he almost laughed nonetheless. “You can have it since you like it so much.”

 

Craig’s eyes went wide as the corners of his lips curled upwards. It had actually hurt somewhat as he had not smiled in ages, but he was fucking happy, and he didn’t give a damn. It was like all his defences were down. He put the guinea pig down, though with some care, and asked, “Really?”

 

“Sure! It’s yours. The Queen isn’t going to have it anytime soon.”

 

In the span of a second, he moved to hug blondie, tightly hugging him in what was probably a crushing grip. Also, due to his tall height thanks to the genetics of his parents, he lifted Tweek off the ground slightly who was squirming frantically. Tweek choked out, “Y-you’re welcome, but… need… air.”

 

Craig dropped him and moved his hand through his hair in slight embarrassment. “Sorry. But, uh… thanks. For the present.”

 

“I think this is the most emotion I’ve seen in you,” Tweek teased.

 

“Shut up.” Involuntarily, the middle finger sprang to action, giving Tweek the bird.

 

“Oh, by the way. It is an automaton so you can actually turn it on and it’ll move around and stuff. Like, listen to your directions and what-not. Here.” Tweek moved to the machine and fiddled around with it, finding the button that he was looked for making it whir to life and buzz with energy. Hm, maybe if Tweek hung around, he could ask how they - automatons - actually worked. As if it were just sleeping, it shook itself awake and gave a little squeak, just like a real one. The machine acted like it was able to sniff, its nose twitching, and it looked at Tweek then at Craig. For some reason, he gave it a little wave.

 

It scampered towards Craig and sniffed his feet, so he found it suitable to kneel down to meet the little guy. “Hello, I’m Craig.” He petted the guy on the head, who squeaked in response and stood on its hind legs to try and reach his face.

 

Tweek noted, “Looks like it already likes you!”

 

Craig gave a brief, but happy nod. “Hm. I’ll name you… Stripe!” Stripe danced around in confirmation, pleased with its new name.

 

“Well, that’s settled.” Tweek appeared delighted that his gift didn’t go to waste. “Really, though. Stripe? It’s… a bit childish.”

 

“Fuck off for once, please.” It was somewhat weird, though because it didn’t have the effect of his monotone voice. It was almost like real banter between friends like he didn’t mean it. Almost.

 

Tweek laughed, and Craig was a tiny bit annoyed that his companion wasn’t at all affected by his antithetical etiquette anymore. When Tweek stopped, he gave a sly smile. “I like it though.”

 

Before they could play around with Stripe some more, his mum appeared in the door. Craig’s smile faltered a little, albeit it didn’t disappear. The expression on her face… was startling. She was deadpan, her eyes dark. “Mum?” Next, to him, he could feel Tweek twitch.

 

Softly above a whisper, she said, “Come in, Craig.” She glanced at Tweek. “And you too, Tweek.”

 

“What happened?”

 

She rubbed her temples. “It’s nothing too bad. Just some…” She drawled, looking for the right word. “troubling news. We’re discussing it in the dining room.”

 

He looked at Tweek and indicated to him to follow. Frankly, Craig was curious at what this news was. “C’ mon Stripe.” He picked up the brass robot and carried him inside, petting him along the way. He smiled once more.

 

His mum locked the balcony doors as they entered. Nevertheless, he didn’t question it as he was sure he was going to find out soon enough. When they entered the dining room, everything seemed fine enough, but his sister and grandma were huddled around a letter his dad was holding, using hushed tones to speak about it, though you could clearly hear what they’re saying if you’re paying attention which Craig wasn’t. Richard was pacing around, wine glass in hand, only giving a brief sign of confirmation that he noticed his son enter.

 

Old Grandma Tucker glanced at them, smiled, and said, “Glad you are here dears. This message is quite the concerning news.”

 

Thomas looked up at him, giving him a weird look, and glanced back down at the letter. Craig shifted nervously, but calmly through his still present smile, asked, “What’s going on.”

 

His dad shook his head and answered, “Well, son. We’ve got trouble on our hands. Some shady fellows appeared on our doorstep and handed us this,” he waved the paper around. “letter. Then, they threatened ‘Hand over the artefact.’ Those bastards think they can blackmail us.” His dad glowered, clearly irate by the whole situation.

 

“What. What artefact are they talking about?”

 

Grandma explained with some pride in her tone, acting like they were around a fire telling tales, “The legendary feldspar! A symbol of the strength of our house, my dear. Used to anyways, people don’t really care too much about it.”

 

Oh right. That obscure piece of history about the House of Tucker. He didn’t realise people actually gave a shit about their family history. “Isn’t that just some random piece of mineral that we keep for no reason other than it looks nice.”

 

“Supposedly, my dear. But the legends say it was magical and carried some sort of power. See, it was discovered by Sir Tucker, a… lesser-known Knight of the Round Table led by Arthur, King of the Britons, who also founded our house. This is all according to myth, I admit. We don’t actually know if these claims are substantiated.”

 

His mother loudly murmured, “Yet, they still want it.” She sighed and took a chair. “Too much trouble these days. We should alert our guards back home.”

 

“Laura, don’t worry. I’m sure everything will end up alright,” Grandma reassured.

 

Richard stopped pacing and turned towards the table. He announced, “It is quite alarming, but do not worry my new friends. The guild is at your service.” He bowed. “May our friendship last generations, like a marriage between two star-crossed lovers from rival houses in a classic fairy tale. Wait, I think that’s Shakespeare…”

 

Tricia was staring at Craig as if deciphering something. Wait, he was still smiling. That little shit was going to say something about it, he could just feel it. The generally apathetic man couldn’t actually stop, his thoughts still mostly about the creature in his hands, but he frantically shook his head at her, virtually pleading not to bring it up. Tweek sensed something happening between them and figured out pretty quickly what was happening, causing him to start to laugh with glee. Jesus Christ, Craig had to be prepared to retreat into the safety of his room again, prepared to escape with Stripe. As a last-minute resort, he protested, “Ruby, no.” Right after, he realised that the nickname she hated might have actually spurred her on.

 

She wiggled her eyebrows, teasing him, a mischevious grin forming on her face. “Hold on, why is Craig Fucker smiling for once?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed the chapter! I'm going to start adding a glossary of place names at the end of the chapter, so it will tell what the place it is in real life. In other news, I couldn't actually decide what name to give to Grandma Tucker, but I'm sure something will come up.
> 
> Places:  
> Brycgstow - Bristol  
> Buen Ayre - Buenos Aires


	5. Duty and Death (Damien)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hastily organised funeral is commenced. The procession moves through the quiet streets of London, looked upon by a crowded audience. Damien recalls a memory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise, I'm baaaaaaaackkkkk with another chapter in quick speed. It is a somewhat slow chapter but it is essential to some character development.
> 
> For funeral service at the chapel, I recommend to listening to this song while reading.  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_46PNVriyOk

“Now this is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning.”

-Sir Winston Leonard Spencer-Churchill

 

A month had passed by, and no evidence had turned made itself known by the various investigations that were conducted. Garadland Yard and a Royal Commission ordered by the new King had achieved absolutely nothing in the last few weeks resulting in rumour-mongering among the populace and the government which Damien thought was counterintuitive. But, he was just the captain of the royal guard and his duty was to protect the very much alive monarch. Regardless, he couldn’t help but think about how the investigation had started in an apparent dead-end right at the beginning. Any trace of the assigned servants and guards that day disappeared, and they did not gain any further information from the American detective. It was now the date of the funeral of the victim of the assassination, and to much of the displeasure of Pip, no progress was made whatsoever.

 

Currently, he was in a new wing where Prince, no, King Philip had moved to in the wake of his new responsibilities, and Damien was quite shocked when it was somehow even more extravagant than the previous accommodations, despite being in the same palace. He wasn’t quite sure how there can be more luxury than… luxury, but it was possible. Each time he had visited the new King’s bedroom, the captain still found himself surprised by the copious amounts of decadence, and his visits had become considerately more frequent. It wasn’t even Pip’s decision to move into these chambers, but at least he started some renovations to make it more homely. That is, he ordered some new furniture to be made and put in place. It wasn’t anything significant. He did manage to already bring in his favourite gramophone which was playing some music. When he asked what music was playing, Pip responded that it was obviously “a full recording of _Der Ring des Nibelungen_ by Wilhelm Richard Wagner.”

 

Currently, he stood leaning against a wall in Pip’s bedchambers, dressed up to the nines in a very expensive, white military uniform that was tailored specifically for him and befit his rank and role. Still, he could tell that it was probably more costly than what any other military officer or even generals wore since Pip told him he spent at least 100 guineas on it. The outfit was a two-piece suit consisting of a double-breasted coat and trousers and a necktie of the same colour. The outfit was the perfect fit, meticulously tailored to his form to be exactly right to wear. The material was also extremely comfortable, and the dress shirt that had come with the suit was supposed to complete the look. Damien must admit, it looked rather stunning on him even if he was likely not to wear it ever again in his life. Pip had employed a new Italian tailor who had promptly made his name in his line of work and had set up shop in Savile Row. One does wonder how expensive Pip’s suit must be compared to his as he had everything ordered from the same person, and the king’s outfit was far fancier than his.

 

Pip was ranting today, which was abnormal from the typical calmness and passivism that was so characteristic of him. It didn’t deter Damien for being there for the troubled King who was thrust suddenly into his role. He would always be there for him, until the very end, even if Pip were having his moments. Nonetheless, it would take a while to get used to since Pip won’t die anytime soon on his watch and Damien predicted that there would be more of these instances.

 

“Damien?” The new King asked for his full attention.

 

“Yes, Pip?” Damien was likely the last one alive to use that nickname.

 

“I absolutely cannot believe my rule is already a disaster. You know they have already disregarded many of the things my grandmother planned.” He started listing out grievances, counting them with his fingers. “First, they only allow one month of mourning since my coronation is literally the next month. Then, they somehow managed to screw over the funeral preparations because the Earl Marshal and the Lord Chamberlain are still fighting over who’s in charge and that whole debacle is happening the day of the funeral. Third, the only one who has actually managed to do any organising at all is the Master of the Household, who people want to get fired because of his Jewish origins. The fucking audacity of my court and government! This whole thing is a bloody mess.”

 

Damien found himself quite startled by the use of swears since Philip never cussed. The young monarch must have been pissed. “Well, that sucks, this whole fiasco.” He wasn’t sure what to say other than that. Damien didn’t have any useful advice to share or power to change anything other than straight-up murdering people. Needless to say, that would most likely create an unwanted result. The situation was true, the funeral matters were a mess. One time he had stepped into the wing of the Royal Household, and he had instantly regretted it due to the unpleasant experience. The wing was pure chaos. Papers were flying everywhere, people were running around like madmen, and there was a lot of shouting for adult men. The household had not dealt with such a matter in 60 years, so all precedents were out of date, and it seems they had forgotten the historical traditions despite remembering such being their jobs. It was remarkable how… unroyal it was, as if the monarchy had not been in existence and buried under the weight of history since William the Conqueror. Damien did hear rumours, however, that the Accession Council was in a worse state than the Royal Household forcing Philip to extemporise a speech for the spectators at St James’s Palace. The facts pertaining to the transition were more embarrassing because the Queen was particular about how she wanted her own funeral to be handled and her advice on transitioning to Philip’s rule. She had reportedly given instructions through twenty pages of paper, covering every aspect from the coffin to the procession to the attire and decorations. For Damien, she gave off a feeling that she was always prepared for death.

 

She wanted a full military state funeral breaking the traditional way of having the funeral being a private affair. Furthermore, she wanted her life to be celebrated rather than mourned, so she commanded white attire instead of mourning black, the reason for their white attire, and the dominant colours being purple and white. More demands consisted of her coffin being carried by a gun carriage hauled by white ponies escorted by a full military parade. It was a first time for this scale of a funeral for Albion yet it was scrupulously planned to the tiniest detail. Of course, everything that could go wrong did go wrong in the planning stage. The military wasn’t even told anything until a few days ago, where Gerald Broflovski had telegrammed the new Commander-in-Chief, Lord Roberts, for help. That ended in him getting carte blanche over the army, so he became responsible for organising the 50,000 or so troops that needed to enter London in a couple of days. Seeing his exceptional handling, Pip gave him the same power over the navy, which also contained the airship fleet, meaning the Head of the Household could technically command the entire armed forces of the Empire thus transforming into the most powerful man in the world - for a few days. Everything was known to Damien owing to Pip literally telling him most if not all of the details concerning the funeral process.

 

As for himself, Damien was not going to be part of the military ensemble. He was going to be standing as what would seem to be the right-hand man. Actually, he was nervous about that fact, so he proceeded to question, “Pip, are you sure I should be at your side for the funeral?”

 

The young King scrutinised at him like he had asked the most stupid question of all time. “Why, of course! Why would you not?”

 

He frowned slightly at the innocent naivité. “You don’t think anyone will be suspicious?”

 

Pip paused slightly, overtly thinking over his next words. “I mean… yes. But I am the King. It is not subtle I admit, but it isn’t direct. Besides, I made sure you had a ceremonial reason to be there. The numpties all forgot the precedents anyways.”

 

Damien sighed.  “You have to be careful as a king. You’re at the front-centre of the world, the global stage! History will have its eyes on you, and you will be expected to carry out your duties as the holy symbol of Albion. The news outlets will start asking questions.” He had to get through with Pip on this issue.

 

Pip almost yelled, his tone forceful, “I am not declaring my love for you to the public Damien even as much as I want to!” 

 

The abruptness of his reaction shocked Damien, making him back off. There was too much pressure on Philip to press the issue of their, in the eyes of society, inappropriate relationship. He conceded, “Okay, Pip… I’m sorry. I just want to look out for your safety. It’s just… this path won’t be easy.”

 

To cement the apology, Damien kissed Pip on the lips and embraced him. In response, the monarch whispered, “I do understand. Thanks for looking out for me. I love you.”

 

“Love you too.”

 

Before they could enjoy a moment of silence around each other, they were interrupted by a series of loud knocks on the door. Quickly, they separated and stood on almost polar opposite sides of the room. Pip answered, “Yes?”

 

A voice emerged, “Your highness, the coffin shall be transported shortly.”

 

“Good, I will be out in a second.” After the footsteps could no longer be heard, Pip turned to him. “It is time.”

 

With a curt nod, Damien straightened his coat and followed.

 

* * *

 

It was bizarre and somewhat amusing seeing the HMY _Alberta_ followed by a disparate cortège of other airships and yachts. While it was no small ship, it was significantly dwarfed by the other vessels, mainly by the Kaiser’s dirigible: a personalised Zeppelin. The beast appeared longer than two football pitches, eclipsing all the others and it was a miracle there were no collisions by the time the coffin was transported to the ground. Pip and Damien were both on the HMY _Albion_ watching the uncoordinated convoy. The Queen had wanted all branches of the military involved, explaining the use of the _Alberta_ and so had taken a convoluted and labyrinthine route from the Imperial Palace to Victoria Station where the actual public procession began. It followed a circular path where then upon the coffin would descend, maintaining a visible altitude from the ground. Then, it snaked across the way of the Thames until it veered off towards the train station, where it would be transported by gun carriage to Paddington Station. People lined up along the riversides as frigates fired 78 guns firing at minute intervals for each year she was alive. They were not in the greatest position to catch a glimpse of the regal coffin since the ship was off the ground. Before the procession could begin, there was a small delay as the Kaiser had to figure out where the hell to park his airship.

 

As he walked by Pip’s side behind the carriages containing the Queen’s few remaining daughters, Damien was disturbed. He would have been annoyed by the 78 gun salute set up in Hyde Park and the chimes of Big Ben (it would chime for a total of, again, seventy-eight times during the march) other than the fact that there was eerie silence. There was no cheering or celebrating like she would want, but there was lack of crying. It was just silent. No human noises were heard, and it seemed even the babies present were attempting to maintain the reticence. All they could discern apart from the aforementioned sounds were footsteps, the collision of wheels against the cobbled floor, and the clopping of the horses’ hooves. The atmosphere, formal and cold, sent a chill down his spine. It was a nation standing in shock unsure of what is to come.

 

The crowd was wearing mostly mourning black, an oversight as no one seemingly gave them the memo about the specific attire. Banners, drapes, and canopies were in the opposing colour, though sometimes a splash of royal purple was seen. The Queen’s coffin itself was covered with a white pall. Damien thought the setting resembled a Yin and Yang symbol. Light and darkness collided together. How fitting. Behind them were the closest grandsons as all the sons had died in horrific tragedy. None of the male children had survived past the Queen and Pip was the only direct descendant alive. Damien shuddered as he recalled how close his love was getting on that fiery deathtrap they called an airship. To this day, the investigations resulted in few conclusions as none of the crew survived, and it was relegated to complete mechanical failure. Fortunately, the last direct descendant had become ill. Now, that descendant stepped in time with him and had become King leading the distant family, torn apart by political hostilities and alliances, in their white regalia. 

 

As the cherry on top, the heavens began to cry as rain descended upon all of them. Everyone prepared for the possibility due to the fact it was typical Albion weather, and immediately, the assembly bloomed black and white umbrellas. He donned his own, forcing him and Pip to come closer together to keep their lavish attire from contact with the water. Cameras flashed, almost blinding with the overcast weather, catching the moment for textbooks. Then, he recalled an intriguing detail. It seemed that the whole affair - well, the public procession - would be recorded on what people called film. Moving pictures, that is. They would be used on the brand new projectors that were invented by some artificer in the Great Lighthouse of Alexandria, meaning that every moment could possibly be watched back like a person was time travelling. Oh well. It was too late, and he didn’t want to subject Pip to the elements.

 

By the time they reached Paddington, more than two hours had gone by. In their private car on the train, they both declined to speak. The silence followed  them the whole journey.

 

* * *

 

During the last public procession on Pirrup Street, another mishap happened where the fair horses pulling the Queen had become unruly in the gloomy weather, kicking themselves free and galloping off into the distance. They sat in front of a grim audience because the front of the parade had gone without them. On the recommendation of the Broflovski child, the naval guard of honour took charge and 138 sailors banded together to pull the hulking gun carriage that necessitated eight horses. Finally, they reached Saint George’s Chapel at Pirrup Castle.

 

While the invited guests filed in for the funeral service, a memory that was etched into Damien’s mind came to the forefront. It was a memory from two, maybe three months before the assassination where he was called to speak personally to the Queen. He could vividly remember every word that came out, the tones and implications. The way she stared at him, into him, through him. He was petrified at what would happen as the night before, Damien deflowered Pip in a night of sweet bliss. He thought it would be all over after being in a secret relationship with the Prince for so long. 

 

_He had arrived in what was one of the many rooms reserved for the Queen. The furniture stipulated that it was an office area, and the Queen sat behind an elegant wooden desk which had family pictures proudly on display on top of it, many of which were photographs of Philip. Others, of her late husband. A… humble portrait of her, painted by some artist, was a giant centrepiece on one of the walls. The ageing woman, yet still powerful in her tender age and still firm in her stride, was perched on a fancy chair that wasn’t on the throne, back turned to him. His lover’s grandmother was wearing the black dress she always happened to be wearing, ever mourning. She was writing something. Damien felt the doors shut behind him, meaning it was just him and the most powerful woman on Earth. For the first time, he was timid. The captain felt weak and small in comparison, overpowered by fright in consideration of what might happen. More importantly, he was worried about what she might do to Pip. When it was clear he was supposed to speak first after minutes of pen scratches, he stammered out, “Your majesty?”_

 

Everyone had filed into their spots with family at the front and invited guests at the back - unrelated or distantly related nobles and top government officials like the Prime Minister, as well as close friends and her favourite staff members. At the forefront stood Pip with no one directly at his sides. Damien was behind him on his right. Everyone in the room was standing in respect. The senior Archbishop, as there were two to perform the rites, wore vestments meant for marriage: a white robe and some fancy gold coloured crap on top. He began speaking.

 

_Without facing him, she asked Damien, “Do you know why you’re here? Why I called you to my office?” Her voice carried power, domination. It was made clear that she was the superior not only by rank but by birth._

 

_Damien shuffled his feet, and an uncomfortable anxiety was starting to rise. “No, ma’am.”_

 

_She turned around, still sat upon her chair, and looked at him in the eyes. Damien felt like his soul was being infiltrated. “I know what you’ve been doing.”_

 

_His heart froze then._

 

The only noise that emanated in the room came from the Archbishop, reciting lines from the Book of Common Prayer. It was one of the moments where the monarch became on the same level as the commoner. A funeral service was not different from that of a commoner other than the service just being more expensive and had more influential people. No specific sayings were designated for monarchs. The Archbishop of Dorovernia spoke Psalms Damien had zero familiarity with.

 

_He said nothing in response and had no chance to since the Queen continued speaking. “I am quite aware of the… relationship you hold with my grandson, my dear, dear grandson. My blood. My sweet Philip. It is a distasteful relationship born of sin and lust. As Queen and Supreme Governor of the Church of Leithien, I cannot approve or sanction both of your… queer behaviours and neither will my grandson be able to. Also,” she stood up. Despite being of insignificant height by actual measurement, she could really make herself seem loftier than she actually is. Like she was shrinking him as well as transforming herself into a giant with her very presence, so Damien was the short one out of the two. “I know what you are.”_

 

_“Pardon?” He was baffled by this turn of events. Damien had no inclination what she was talking about._

 

_However, she never clarified. “Fortunately for you, that is not why I called you here.”_

 

Sir Albert Woods, the Garter Principal King of Arms, began to pronounce her style. “By the Grace of God, of the United Kingdom of Albion and Hibernia, Queen, Defender of the Faith, Empress of the Indus. Protector of the southern Orient.”

 

_“I wanted to talk to you because there will be a time where I will not be alive anymore. I cannot shelter my grandson for much longer. Personally, I trust you, and this is why you are in a unique position as captain of the Royal Guard. But… you have a greater understanding of the titles, the nobility, the politics. They are a threat to his well-being. I shall tell you this. He is the job. He is the essence of your duty. Loving him… Protecting him… Of course, I will warn you that the journey may not be easy. You will have to make choices, judgments, you may not want to make or face. But doing this for him, doing this for me, there is no greater act of patriotism. Or perhaps… love.” She smiled to herself like remembering a fond memory._

 

_Damien was stunned._

 

The Lord Chamberlain snapped his white stave of office in half, a loud crack echoing through the chapel. An end of his service. He placed the two halves onto the coffin.

 

_“Damien, my rule was a symbol of strength, of prosperity. Of hope, of progress. This will come to an end, this calm before the storm. I have made many enemies in my lifetime. It is a price I will pay dearly for, and a challenge I will pass onto Philip. I have no doubt he will be a great leader, but it will be a rough trip with many bumps and blocked passages along the way. Especially with the baboons who scramble for every ounce of power they can get their greedy hands on. The crown is a burden. In my nearly sixty years of wearing the crown, I have never gotten accustomed to the weight. This weight will soon find itself a new owner in Philip, and he will always be reminded of the inescapable shadow that will be bound to him. He will need guidance, help, support, love. You must make a promise.”_

 

_Damien, for the first time that meeting, gazed directly into her eyes. No longer did he try to avoid her probing stare. No longer did he keep his eyes to the side to flee confrontation._

 

It was his turn, the special moment Pip had set up for Damien. The explanation for his appearance, the guise he set so it would look less suspicious. It worked in the eyes of the court and the government mainly because it appeared he shared a good relationship with her. He unbuckled the ceremonial sword he received upon becoming a captain as anointed personally by the deceased. With its golden scabbard on, encrusted with jewels, he slowly approached the coffin. Now in his mind, he received an epiphany that this was not a fraudulent act. It was true symbolism. He kneeled as he moved to set the sword on the coffin, bowing his head.

 

_“Swear to me that you will protect my son at all costs. Swear that you will defend him in this life and the next. Swear you will shield him from harm, from enemies domestic and foreign. You will stand by his side through the inferno of Hell and back. You will not put him willingly in danger. You will aid help him become a great King, a champion of the Empire. Give me your oath, and in this, you will do me excellent service even in my passing. To know my grandson is in good hands._

 

_Standing tall and rigid with newfound purpose, he told her,_

 

“I promise,” Damien whispered as metal clanked with stone.

 

After collecting his thoughts for the two days she rested in the chapel, he concluded something when she was finally laid to rest in the mausoleum. It was too risky to be so brazen in his emotional attachment to Pip. In order to defend him, Damien would have to create some distance. For the greater good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed the chapter! I have outlined and planned chapters all the way up to chapter 20, so we should be going strong for a while. Have a nice day.
> 
> Fun fact: 100 guineas, or 105 pounds is around £12,323.32 ($15,422.63) in today's money.
> 
> Places:  
> Garadland - Scotland  
> Pirrup - The equivalent of Windsor  
> Dorovernia - Canterbury  
> Leithien - England  
> Hibernia - Ireland  
> Indus - India


	6. The Art of the Deal (Cartman)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cartman receives some news and announces his plans for the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had to rewrite this one after realising it was majority dialogue and I missed out writing some key details I was holding in my mind. This one is a fairly short chapter.

“I am like any other man. All I do is supply a demand.”

-Alphonse Gabriel Capone

 

The messenger silently placed the folder in his hands and curtly nodded, answering Cartman’s unspoken question. He skimmed through its content which was actually a relatively short letter regarding a recent scouting mission. Currently, he had ordered some men to retrieve an object from one of the noble families, and they had requested permission to execute the operation. While Cartman could have probably offered a bribe due to the lack of fortune the family experienced concerning their coffers, he believed it was much simpler strong-arming and forcing them to hand it over. He quickly wrote on a spare parchment of paper that they could do so and handed it to the courier. Tipping his tweed flat cap as a sign of respect, he wordlessly departed as quickly as he arrived.

 

Personally, he wasn’t sure nor did he care why Dr. Mephesto wanted this so-called artefact. Apparently, the possession of the rock was essential to his research, so he trusted him.  After all, the strange doctor had assured him many times of its importance in the months before he actually looked into the subject. Something about unlocking some powerful secrets that might prove to be a useful asset in his arsenal. The doctor always seemed off, but Cartman wasn’t one to judge him despite Mephesto’s weird obsession with ass. Well, asses. Anything goes, he supposed.

 

With that business sorted, Cartman expected detailings of why it was actually useful and what it did in the first place. But, he was preoccupied with tasks that required his current attention. The international businessman was busy, and he did not need to focus on something that hadn’t come to fruition. He was pleased with the progress of his various plans and the growth of his business. Production of military assets was becoming more streamlined and more efficient, and by the indications of the telegrams that reported stock value each day, company value was rising rapidly. There were a few hurdles and roadblocks to overcome, but they were mere inconveniences. First of all, he was disappointed that somehow the Jew had not been removed from the Royal Household. Cartman was surprised that Philip grew a pair of balls and actually protected the guy. Oh well, he wasn’t particularly worried about the crown. They wouldn’t be a problem, and all they would have to do is sit pretty. The other letdown was that he was beaten to the exclusive billionaire club, at least in American dollars, by some black dude called Token Black. It had no effect on him other than some prestige being lost. It was a shame he was beaten to the post by some Negroid.

 

However, he could look past that, and he fully expected that he would be able to beat all the other industrialists and CEOs. If everything goes his way, which it will, profits will skyrocket through the roof, and he’d become the most powerful and richest man in all of human history. Everyone would have to follow his whim and command, for he would become a God and ascend among the heavens. The world would bow down at his feet. Cartman dreamed of the influence and authority he’d wield and how close he was to achieving that leading him to laugh maniacally. His laughter filled the room.

 

A voice reached out to him, saying, “Sir? Sir?” 

 

The person brought him back to reality. Right, he was in the middle of a meeting with the board of directors of his company. They were sat in the humbly named, Cartman Towers, a corporate office built on top of a cliff overlooking the sea. A fair distance from the nearest major city, Leyrpool, the skyscraper dominated the skyline for miles, towering over the natural landscape and agricultural farms that surrounded the privately owned land. As it was, Cartman prioritised privacy and the beautiful location over the convenience of location from being in a city. That was fixed anyways with a private railroad that frequented the company grounds. The meeting room mostly consisted of a large, oval table that was made of the most expensive wood Cartman could find and a large, glass window that allowed them to view the Irish sea and its glimmering waves as well as the setting sun. 

 

There were usually twelve - other than himself - board members seated at the table, but Dr Mephesto was conspicuously absent, noting that he was inconveniently preoccupied. Fortunately, he wasn’t really needed for most of these meetings anyways, and he held few opinions on company direction. The group was all male and were accustomed to his shenanigans and his unique personality; however, he had recently hired a new Director of Modern Warfare after the last one met an unfortunate end after disagreements in direction and ethics. The new one had much to learn, but the essential part was that he was shrewd and followed orders without asking too many questions about silly morals and whatnot.

 

Cartman coughed and clasped his hands together, calmly placing them on the wooden table as he sat up straight up from his spot as the blatant head of the table. Seemingly genuine, he apologised, “Sorry for that… what’s your name again?”

 

The new director who had a large amount of dark, brown hair on his head, sat two seats on his right. “Mark Cotswolds.”

 

“Right. Doesn’t matter. Sorry about that, I can have my moments. Anyways, let’s get down to businesses. As usual, I’ll be here for the start, and then I’ll let you guys handle the fine details. I’ve reserved dinner plans for myself, and I don’t want to miss that.”

  
  


The Director of Finances began, “Recent developments have increased our profits considerably. They should continue to rise drastically in the coming months, and overall, net worth will steadily rise in the long term with no foreseeable decline.” He motioned for Mark to continue.

 

Mark nodded and tossed some blueprints onto the centre. “Albion has bought several dozen units of the Maxim gun we acquired the rights to. They should be pleased with the results and thus, will be encouraged to buy more.”

 

“Recent developments will be most beneficial, Cartman,” a man on his immediate left continued. He was Sir Edward Viktorov, Director of Public Affairs. An eccentric man who had Hellenic, German, and Slavic ancestry yet had inherited few of the familiar features from each of them, instead receiving the characteristics and disposition of an English gentleman with whitening hair and groomed facial hair. Having met him by pure chance, Edward became an early friend and long-time ally since Cartman’s burgeoning career began. “Officially, a new Boer war has broken out after prolonged sieges in South Africa during the final month of the Queen. The other major development is a large scale revolt in China, destroying European possessions. According to a report, I managed to get a hold of, Albion’s protectorate has been a particular target of the rebels. These wars in the colonies will definitely make the militaries of Europe and America see the success of our weapons.”

 

Twiddling his thumbs, he began thinking. Colonial wars is a good sign for the company, which had a near-monopoly on armaments in Albion and the Coalition. All weapons that would be needed would be produced by them. “Good, good. But… these are minor affairs against dumb farmers and uncivilised savages.”

 

“It should be noted that these wars will increase innovation,” Mark replied. “Due to the success of the Maxim gun, we began looking into more portable designs along with our collaborators. Already, the prototypes look promising.” He pointed at a diagramme on the table. A picture of what seemed to be a machine gun that can be carried by hand instead of having to be moved by a wheel. Definitely, it was less burdensome. “Running some numbers and various studies, I can predict and conclude that war will be revolutionised, with our company at the forefront. I initiated some other projects. New submersibles, artillery, and guns are being created. Concurrently, we began conceptualising a new form of warfare. My team of engineers have termed it mechanised warfare. A long, long, long ways off, but an exciting future nonetheless. Sadly, it is merely an idea for now.”

 

The CEO stood up and paced in the front of the room. He pondered all the possibilities, and it seemed that finally, they could begin the process on his master plan. Cartman cared not for the late Queen and who actually even assassinated her, but it worked in his favour. New technology meant that industrial warfare was at its height, and if he played the right cards, he could achieve the vast power he craved. If only he had thought of actually killing her himself. Still pacing, he mused, “Hm. This news is most pleasing. You have done great, Merk.”

 

“It’s Mark.”

 

Cartman ignored him. “Already, you have done a fantastic job Merk in the short time you’ve joined our board. Now, it is time I tell you all of my plan for the future. Currently, we sell arms, equipment, and several types of vehicles to most nations due to my work in monopolising the industry here in Albion and my work to conglomerate several international companies. Due to our deals and manoeuvring, the Coalition and Albion are both in our pockets concerning their military. However, demand is limited, and these petty conflicts overseas are not severe enough to diminish supply.”

 

Edward concluded, “You seek to raise tensions and possibly even a war between Albion and the Coalition. In turn, demand will become astronomically high.” The man, of course, read his thought process correctly. The reason why Cartman kept him around.

 

“Presto! You,” he pointed. “Get a raise. Of zero pounds that is.”

 

“Thank you, Cartman,” Edward said, clearly not offended. 

 

One of the other directors asked, “How do we manage to do that?”

 

“I’m glad you asked.” He faced the table directly. “I have a few friends I can contact and a budding relationship with Mitch Conner, the rising politician in the Conservative Party. In fact, I already have scored us a deal. All we need to do is make discrete donations. Edwerd, I’ll leave most of that process to you since that’s your domain. It’s paramount he succeeds. So, to reiterate.” He drew out a chart and unfurled it, subsequently pinning the large paper to the wall. It had three, clearly labelled sections. With a wooden pointer, he indicated each section. “Phase 1: Fund Mitch Conner.” On the next step tagged Phase 2: ???, he paused for a few seconds before proceeding. “Phase 3: Profit.”

 

The room turned deadly silent. Everyone was speechless. The noise of seagulls squawking in the distance halted. It seemed even if the air had gone still. There was no movement either as everyone had stopped moving other than some blinking eyes and a raised eyebrow from Edward. It went on like this for a while, and Cartman’s voice penetrated the silence, coming out louder than he expected. “What.” That was a statement.

 

Mark cautiously spoke, “Uh… sir. Couldn’t you have written out phase two? You articulated them well enough.”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous Merk,” he chided like Mark was a dumb, insolent child. “If I write down my plans, they can be found by the enemy.”

 

“Pardon?”

 

“You know, the protagonist. It’s like a story. I’m the villain, so I’m their archnemesis. But I found why they always end up losing. They tell their plans to them or leave it around somewhere or have a long, boring monologue when they imprison the hero. I won’t make that mistake.”

 

Edward, in his posh voice, simply queried, “Are you calling yourself a villain now, Cartman?”

 

“No, no. I don’t think I’m a villain. What is the saying… the end justifies the means. It’s for the greater good. My greater good. Which you all will make money off. But I do have grand visions.”

 

His secretary entered the room, announcing, “Mr Cartman, sir. It’s time to depart for dinner.”

 

“Ah. Excellent, perfect timing. I’ll be there right away.” He turned his gaze to the board. “Well, I must leave you all now. I expect everyone to get busy. Remember, I want written reports on your progress.”

 

With that, he left. In the ride to the restaurant, he ruminated on the future. A broad grin appeared on his face, and he began laughing. Much to the ire of his chauffeur, the car was filled with the sudden noise of a lengthy, “Ahahahaha!”  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is wise to be wary of Cartman. Who knows what he's planning? Enjoy your day!
> 
> Places:  
> Leyrpool - Liverpool


	7. Dealing with Business (Kyle)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kyle's dad receives a promotion leading Kyle to receive an important mission from the King. A telegram is sent to his brother, and he holds a surprise visit to a businessman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everybody! Sorry for the extremely late update, it just happened I was on holiday and I got very little work done on this fanfic. So, here it is!

“Can you not see that the task is your task - yours to dream, yours to resolve, yours to execute?” 

― Upton Sinclair

 

It had become an unexpected surprise for the Broflovski family when King Philip promoted his father as Private Secretary to the Sovereign.

 

According to his majesty, the previous incumbent expressed a desire to retire after serving the crown for many years and the Queen personally for fourteen, and the assistant private secretary who would typically be the heir to the position expressed that his service in the household died with the Queen. Thus after a brief consideration of his exemplary role in the funeral process, Philip appointed Gerald Broflovski. 

 

Kyle did wonder if there was something more to it, another factor that resulted in the change of position. Of course, it would be improper of him to ask, but there was a gnawing curiosity that consumed his thoughts. After all, he quickly became aware of various attempts and rumours to kick his dad out of the royal household. Despite admitting to himself that his family weren’t the strictest adherents to the faith (him especially because let’s face it, he only had the foggiest knowledge about their traditions), but there was a need for action and Kyle was willing to defend his religion and his dad’s honour. Out of politeness and respect for his dad’s wishes, Kyle suppressed the urge to confront the anti-Semites. All the chatter ended with his new role. After all, Philip’s policy was made perfectly clear by following the precedence of the unique tolerance of his grandmother. There were to be no changes to that.

 

The most significant effect was that his father had to move to a new office in a different part of the palace, nearer to the wing where the King resided. So, that’s what he was doing. Helping his dad move stuff to the new place. The room admittedly felt more crowded or even smaller than the previous office, but then again perhaps since he - rather, his father - now dealt with the Queen’s most direct affairs, there was a need for less stuff. That is, the previous position required control over the below stairs operations from the kitchens (from chefs to the ingredients and type of food) to the butlers and housekeepers. Now, it was merely handling the trips and correspondence for the monarch along with any interaction between the government and head of state (and the rest of the colonies). It wasn’t any easier of a task. Perhaps, just a tad bit more streamlined and straightforward.

 

As for Kyle himself? He didn’t really have an official position anymore as Philip didn’t appoint him as an assistant private secretary. On the other hand, the King gave him practically enough security clearance to be one de facto. Definitely not de jure. A part of Kyle wondered if he’d move past being an assistant, past merely helping out. Would he make a difference?

 

Kyle wondered how he ended up thinking that question. Here he was, holding a box of some crap his dad had and he was trying to think about his own future. He should think about his dad’s Kylfuture first. Baby steps. It was hard to swallow that down, though. He was smart and had been accepted into University at an unorthodox age and graduated with flying colours. Something inside, Kyle whispered he was destined to change history. Another part of him elbowed its way into his thoughts, saying his adopted brother was destined for far greater. If anything, his life was the unorthodox one.

 

As he plopped the wooden box on the desk (much too hard), he noticed an envelope haphazardly laying in plain sight. A yellow wax seal giving off a golden sheen pressed it close. Kyle didn’t need to read where it was from, it would only confirm what he already knew. An official letter from the Kingdom of Gaul with the symbol in the shape of a lily - the fleur-de-lis - meant it was from the Marsh family.

 

Which made him think of Stan. His childhood friend he somehow was lucky enough to make acquaintance with. His best friend that induced strange feelings he couldn’t adequately describe. His breath often hitched, and his stomach did flips. Sometimes, his brain became frozen. His confusion was furthered even more when Stan mentioned Wendy. She came with flashes of anger and disappointment. Even when she suddenly disappeared from high Albion society (her parents didn’t seem to care), Stan still gave a damn about her. Kyle wasn’t able to figure out what it all meant. Maybe his brother had answers, he always seemed to have them. All Kyle could muster were questions.

 

He didn’t notice his father step into the room since he was considering sending a telegram to Ike, so he jumped at least ten feet into the air when he heard, “Son?”

 

After the brief shock, Kyle regained composure. “Yes?”

 

“How long have you been standing there?”

 

Kyle briefly paused. “Not long.”

 

“Oh, okay. Thanks for helping me move office.”

 

“It’s not a problem.” His eyes darted downwards towards the envelope that occupied his mind. 

 

Of course, as luck had it, his dad noticed. “Can you take that to his majesty for me? I still have to learn the ropes from my predecessor, who has been so kind as to teach me.”

 

“Sure thing.”

 

* * *

 

He found the monarch working in his office after getting through security. If it could be called that anyway. The captain and personal bodyguard looked to be lost in his thoughts and had not noticed Kyle approach. Maybe today was the day of catching people off guard, but it was supposed to be the jet-black haired man’s job to, well, guard. In fact, the captain probably wouldn’t have reacted at all to his presence if Kyle didn’t say anything multiple times. He was quickly shooed in to leave the brooding man to whatever was going on up there.

 

The young King (still older than when the Queen took power!) had his nose stuck in the papers from the cabinet meeting, a pair of clear spectacles perched on top. Kyle didn’t know that he needed them.

 

The sunlight streamed in from various windows, but the sky appeared to be darkening slowly. Kyle sighed. It wasn’t often that the capital had a healthy amount of sunlight. Damien slowly shut the door behind them, like he didn’t want to make a disturbance. The sigh that emerged from the wood was loud enough for Philip to still hear as he immediately looked up.

 

Rather cheerfully, the King greeted, “Oh! Hello… Kyle! What brings you here?” He stood up from his chair behind the desk.

 

Kyle bowed. “Your majesty,” Philip responded with a smile. “A letter from the King of Gaul.”

 

Still smiling, he stated, “Oh.” The tone did not match with how natural that smile appeared to the naked eye. “Another congratulations message I’m guessing. I seem to be getting an awful lot of those. It’s already a bit tiring.”

 

Was Kyle allowed to answer? To prevent it from deteriorating into awkwardness, he hazarded, “Your coronation is in a month.” Stating the obvious couldn’t hurt.

 

“I know, I know.” He waved the fact off very casually. “Just… one day they are mourning, and the next day they are bloody celebrating. ‘Congratulations King Philip! Your grandmother just died, and now you are the ruler of the largest empire in history!”

 

There was some difficulty in figuring out a response. So, Kyle just went with, “I should just give you the envelope.”

 

“Yes. That is probably a good idea.”

 

Kyle handed him the elegant envelope and the King kind of just treated it like a regular piece of paper, holding it with one hand and outlining the edge with the fingers from his other hand. The monarch was just smiles, but there was definitely some pondering happening under that long, blond hair.

 

Before Kyle was able to excuse himself, Philip asked, “Kyle, can I ask you a favour?”

 

“Sir?” He noticed the strain on the King’s facial muscles this time as he continued his display.

 

“Since I am the divine…” he drawled on for a while. “ruler. And I am bound by a constitution. I must be impartial in politics with no public opinion of my own. I must ask you to research something for me. I need you to investigate Mitch Conner.”

 

“...Sir?”

 

“I looked a little into the matter myself without garnering too much suspicion, but I did not gain much. It seems as if this Conner chap appeared out of thin air someday and managed to become party leader.”

 

“I’ll see what I can do, then.” He bowed.

 

“Thank you, it would mean quite a bit. Since you are in no official affiliation with me. Tell Damien to come in on your way out, will you? He has no business moping by the door. I doubt its much easier protecting me from behind a door.”

 

“Sure.” He bowed again.

 

When he stepped out and told Damien, he wondered why the bodyguard was on a first-name basis. Then again, Philip called him Kyle. No matter, time to focus on the task at hand.

 

* * *

 

Before he set out the next morning to look into some public records, he decided to send that telegram to Ike. It had been a while since they had seen each other or sent anything because Ike now studied and did research at a university in Canadia.

 

Kyle had to give credit where its due. His little brother was incredibly brilliant, a genius even. He did this thing where he set up a private telegram between both of them through some technological wizardry, so it was essentially private mail. He barely recalled the details which Ike had explained thoroughly to him.

 

_To my wonderful brother Ike,_

 

Was that a good introduction? Too flattering, maybe.

 

_Dear Ike,_

 

A simple yet suitable introduction. Not anything too flashy. He continued typing.

 

_I hope this reaches you in good time and shape as I must admit I barely can remember the details you provided me when you were explaining the system._

 

He laughed to himself. There was no way he was admitting that to Ike. He crossed that out immediately. It was convenient that the machine didn’t read anything that was struck through.

 

_Hello! How is my favourite Canadian doing? It has been a long, long time since we’ve seen each other after you went to Canadia for your studies. Things back in Albion are somewhat interesting and confusing, I have seemed to develop a lot more questions than I have answers for and it is doing my bloody head in. Did you hear about dad’s promotion? I cannot believe he is now the private secretary!_

 

Kyle was satisfied enough with this introduction, though he revised it when he finished the letter. Throughout, there were lines scattered around, crossing out everything he changed his mind about. He wanted to make sure it was as perfect as it could get. He asked a few questions and described his personal mission the King assigned. He even said a little about Stan. Kyle trusted Ike no matter what happened, so he was sure he could talk about this stuff.

 

_...and so, I must conclude this letter before I go on rambling and rambling. I hope your education is going well, I know you are going to be great._

 

_I have the honour to be your obedient servant,_

 

_Kyle_

 

That seemed to be way too formal.

 

_Sincerely,_

_Kyle_

 

_P.S. If one must be honest, I do miss you._

 

He sent the paper through the machine, which immediately began beeping and started to transmit its electric signals across the pond. Apparently, the whole morning had passed by, and it was past noon, the sun high in the sky. 

 

With the loss of time, he quickly set forth to the Public Records Office.

 

* * *

 

Kyle now had access to his own private driver due to their new status, so he rode in the latest edition from the line of Božek steam cars. It was a beautiful work of engineering though, in consideration of the artificer’s car that showed up at the jubilee, Kyle now had a comparison that blew any other transport out of the water. The foldable roof was put up because it had begun to pour with rain causing the trip to consist of lots of loud honking at hunched pedestrians pattering their way through the capital city’s streets.

 

He arrived at the Public Records Office, a building that looked like a glorified library. A neo-Gothic palace for random bits of paper that was deemed essential for recordkeeping and history, with its stone walls and columns and crenelations. It did seem that for a century or more, the government of Albion had a fetish for that architecture, as you could find examples of significant buildings that utilised that style.

 

He climbed the short series of steps, and Kyle found him surrounded by shelves and shelves upon documents. It seemed like an endless sea with an array of indiscernible desert sands. Hopefully, someone would be able to lead him to the right papers. A man sat behind a reception area, reading something intensively.

 

Kyle’s “Hello?” jolted the man from his book who frantically slammed a leather-bound book shut and looked at him.

 

Calming down, the man exasperated, “Oh. Who are you?”

 

“I’m Kyle. I was looking for a record. Can you help me?”

 

“Look, we don’t allow people to just walk in here and look through our records. There’s some secrecy here.”

 

Without much of a second thought, the question slipped off the tongue. “Is there a point calling it ‘public’ then? Like, isn’t the purpose of recordkeeping for people to read them.”

 

“Alright, mister smarty pants. That still won’t convince me to help you.”

 

“Look,” Kyle moved into to whisper whereupon the man lent him an ear. “I’m here on a discrete mission from King Philip. He wanted me to look into the records for him.”

 

The expression on the guy’s face instantly changed as well as his tone, suddenly becoming overly friendly. “Ohhh!!! Well, why didn’t you say so? What can I do to help you? I’m always a stickler for supporting the crown.”

 

He didn’t actually expect that to work as well as it did. Well, to the victors go the spoils. “I need whatever information you have on Mitch Conner.”

 

“Tricky, tricky that will be. But I shall see what I can dig up. Follow me.”

 

He was led through the horde of bookshelves and neatly organised records. There appeared to be some sort of sorting and categorisation system, but it would be like reading a foreign language. There was little indication of any specifics due to the fact it was all in codes. It all seemed… a little counterintuitive. How often did they need to go through all this… this crap that warranted memorising an entire system?

 

They stopped in a dark corner, still ever surrounded by an obscene amount of paper. The guide scanned a shelf and then visibly frowned before grabbing a folder. Holding it out, he said, “I’m afraid this is all we have.”

 

As Kyle grabbed the folder, a singular piece of paper flew out of the bottom and landed gently on the floor. His face turning rather sheepish, he picked up the paper and opened the folder, only to realise that it was the only thing in there. He glanced up at the recordkeeper who merely shrugged in response.

 

On the paper was a plethora of trivialities and formal writing that contained very little information regarding the party leader’s history. Mitch Conner did really seem to come out of thin air. Basically, the paper stated that he became a Member of Parliament in 1880 in his constituency, meaning he was new blood. It seemed like he was just an obscure politician, but certainly, there had to be something more than that. Not anyone can host a serious attempt at becoming party leader. Then he found a section that noted significant financial donations from a man called Eric Cartman. That name seemed somewhat familiar.

 

He turned to the man who feigned disinterest but was very obviously curious in the matter. Kyle wondered if the workers here actually looked at any of these documents. “Do you have any records pertaining to Eric Cartman?”

 

“Of course we do. We had to force them off him with police warrants,” the man nonchalantly said.

 

While Kyle was led into another part of the building, he asked, “Why did you require records from him? Was it necessary to use force?”

 

“He practically arms our military. In fact, he _IS_ our military-industrial complex. With such a monopoly, the government needs some kind of eye on him.” The recordkeeper paused for a second. “Not that the government had done anything with them when it was actually retrieved.”

 

It turned out there was a lot of files on Eric Cartman. A whole damn stack.

 

Company documentation, financial records, and a small list of police records. It seemed that Cartman was involved in a few crimes, but was let off the hook.

 

After scouring through several documents, Kyle reckoned that he probably didn’t need to read the rest of the lengthy writings. Cartman was the head of a company which was of course called Cartman Industries that basically bought out all the military companies (excluding a few naval and airship companies) in Albion. Interestingly enough, he lived in the same constituency as Mitch Conner, and the company headquarters were in the same place. He would definitely have to take a visit.

 

After he placed the files neatly back where they belonged, Kyle announced, “I think I’m done here. Thank you for helping.”

 

“It was no problem. Tell his majesty that I was glad to be of service and that I believe he shall be a great monarch.”

 

“Sure thing.”

 

* * *

 

Kyle wasn’t expecting to be dragged into a conversation about a short getaway to Sandringham, away from the “hustle and bustle of the palace.” The King was unusually casual around him, and Kyle wasn’t sure why. But, oh well.

 

“I heard the shooting is particularly good there,” Philip explained. “It might be quite fun. Perhaps, I could practice my archery and brush up on my lacklustre rifle skills.” From his position by the window in the monarch’s office, which he was gazing out of, he turned to Kyle and asked, “What do you think?”

 

Kyle tugged at the collar of his uniform. “Uh, I think it’s alright. I mean, you are the King. You can do whatever you want… as long as you maintain your duties. Everyone needs a break, I suppose.”

 

Philip sagely moved his head up and down. “You’re right. I think it will relieve a little stress, especially for poor Damien.” There it was again. Mentioning the captain, who happened to be absent from their discussion. “I think the recent events have been hard on him, so it should be a good distraction. Righto, I shall tell your father to organise a trip there. You should come along too, it will be fun, I assure you.”

 

He gently shook his head. “Oh, I can’t.”

 

The King tilted his head in confusion, a bit like a dog. “Oh? Why not?”

 

Kyle shuffled his feet. “It has to do with the task you gave me?” It came out like a question, so he quickly moved to explain himself. “Sorry, I mean, it’s about Mitch Conner.”

 

“Oh, right. Did you find out anything?” He took a seat in a chair (not the office chair) and crossed his legs. Philip grabbed a cup of tea that was nearby and pressed the porcelain to his lips.

 

Still standing, he replied, “Not as much as I hoped. I’ll have to continue further research. Which is why I came here. I’ll need to ask a businessman named Eric Cartman a few questions, and I think your help might be conducive to getting answers.”

 

Placing the ornate cup back on the plate, Philip smiled. “Sure, sure. I will find some papers or something for you.” Almost leaping up, Philip rose. “Good luck with Cartman. As I said, I will be in Sandringham.” The King gave Kyle a hearty pat on the back. “Remember Kyle, take a rest now and then. Not everything has to be done at the nearest hour.”

 

Philip chuckled and left Kyle to his thoughts.

 

* * *

 

With papers in hand and a train ticket, Kyle arrived at Cartman Towers by nightfall. While accompanied by a few others on the rail to Leyrpool (despite the insistence of King Philip, Kyle did not waste funds on a private car), the overly lengthy train to the headquarters was empty. His only company was the sounds of the train’s whistle screeching every so often and the chugging of the wheels. Occasionally, he could hear the baa’s from sheep and the barking of dogs.

 

Kyle wasn’t sure why they had a train with so few people travel back and forth so, at least according to the timetables.

 

The skyscraper and the various buildings that made up the compound were lit up like a beacon, making itself the centre of attention in a countryside that was shrouded in darkness and gained vision by torch fire. It was like the building was its own version of a sun with its bright, white lights and searchlights brightening the surrounding area beyond the compound’s walls.

 

Even though the walls - made of brick - looked rather dull and dreary and imprisoning, the buildings actually seemed quite the aesthetic. Other than the lights though. That was overwhelming and unnecessary. It was quite a modern architectural feat and rose to the sky, more colossal than any building Kyle had seen or could remember. Strange to see in Albion and especially so in what was a rural area. It was towering, and the structure was colossal. He would have to crane your neck to take a glimpse at the top.

 

He appreciated the attempt to keep the courtyard area green which stepped into when the train doors opened. There were growing trees and plenty of flowers that were being maintained. A large fountain was erected in the centre of the courtyard, its marble surrounded by lovely flowers. Tulips, probably, in various colours. Orange, yellow, red, you name it. Again, the fountain made use of a million lights turning the water clear and bright so he could see the bottom. No coins were thrown in for luck. Or perhaps they were already hoovered up by some unknown force?

 

Before he entered the ground floor, there was a conspicuous statue at the front entrance. It was definitely Eric Cartman, and now Kyle could definitely recognise him. It was the jerk who pushed the blond guest at the dinner party as well as swindling a few folks out of their money. Albeit, the statue was a little less... rounder than the real version and there was a bit more grandeur to the black stone.

 

Kyle sighed, knowing what he would have to deal with here. So, after a deep breath to prepare himself, he entered the lobby.

 

The ground floor was a sparkling, pristine lobby made of marble, almost palatial if not for the few stylistic differences. In all honesty, it was probably a little too white, with little contrast in colour other than a few plants and artwork. For a company that dealt with military armaments, the headquarters seemed overly excessive. Then again, its owner and CEO was the wealthiest person in Albion other than the monarch.

 

Again, there were a tiny amount of people. Though Kyle realised that night meant there would be few people working still. There was, however, a receptionist who stared at Kyle from her seat at a desk, probably wondering who the hell he was and what he was doing here.

 

“Hello? May I help you?” Her voice, despite its quiet and polite nature, pierced the air around them.

 

Walking up to her, he responded, “I’m Kyle Broflovski, but please call me Kyle. I’m here on behalf of King Philip. I need to speak with Eric Cartman. A few questions.”

 

The look on her face displayed one of surprise, but she smiled nonetheless. Very slowly, she nodded. “Okay... “She coughed. “Sorry, it is a little bit unusual. This situation. Do you have any proof you are here for the King?”

 

“Yes, yes. That’s right. Uh, I have papers here.” He pulled out a piece of paper from his jacket pocket, the words on which conveyed that he is here on behalf of the crown and specifically, His Royal Majesty King Philip I, complete with a signature and a stamp.

 

Very slowly, she read through it, and her eyes seemed to scan the signature and the stamp several times. “Okay. Hold on one second.” She dialled buttons on a unique telephone which Kyle deducted was a phone line to Cartman himself and held the phone to her ear.

 

Meanwhile, Kyle continued taking in the unfamiliar surroundings, unsure of what to do. The whole floor gave him an odd feeling he couldn’t quite define or place. As if his instincts were telling him something.

 

Since he was in close proximity, Kyle overheard much of the conversation.

 

“Mr Cartman, sir?”

 

“WHAT IS IT MARGARET I’M BUSY!”

 

The loud yelling that even Kyle could hear caused him to jump. The receptionist stayed remarkably still though her body went rigid. Her facial expression told a different story. A pang of fear, nervousness in her bouncing eyes. It made Kyle wonder.

 

“There’s a man here, sent by the King. His name is Kyle. Kyle Broflovski.”

 

There was a pause. Cartman was a lot quieter now and didn’t yell, so Kyle couldn’t hear what he said.

 

“Oh? Send him up? Alright.” She put the phone back with a click and let out a deep sigh. “Cartman’s agreed to see you. Just take the lift to the top floor.” She pointed behind her.

 

Kyle was surprised that Cartman didn’t resist much and just let him waltz into the businessman’s office. There must be something up, so he prepped himself again.

 

The office was way too extravagant. And egotistical with the number of portraits that hung on the walls. It was like a penthouse up here, and there was a visible effort to display wealth. Everything screamed luxury. The use of gold, the intricate woodworks in the furniture, the black floor tiles that blended in with the night sky that was visible through a wall entirely made of windows.

 

And staring out that window was the CEO himself, his back facing Kyle. Cartman was taller than average and clearly wider than most people. The light from the moon, a full moon, cast its reflected light onto him showing that he had short, brown hair.

 

Without turning around, the man spoke, “So, I didn’t expect the pleasure of seeing the Jew boy here.”

 

Kyle immediately reacted with, “Don’t call me Jew boy, fatass.” Their meeting had not started off well as he was already pissed.

 

Cartman swiftly rotated on the spot, a frown forming under his eyes that displayed a dark brown colour. Slowly, he stated, “I’m not fat. I’m big-boned.”

 

He bit the side of his lip to keep himself from responding with another comment that could complicate matters. 

 

Seeing this, Cartman sat down in an extremely comfy looking, black office chair, the frown on his face disappearing and instead, a tiny smile appearing. It was almost unsettling. He motioned for Kyle to take a seat in the less expensive chair that sat opposite his desk. “Take a seat… Kahl was it? I hope you’ve enjoyed my company headquarters. It is quite… exquisite no?”

 

With some processing, Kyle did eventually take his offer to sit down. Diplomatic, that’s what he had to be. “Thank you, it’s pronounced Kyle though.” He tried to say it as politely as he could, without letting his temper flare-up.”

 

“Right Kahl.” It was barely noticeable when Cartman’s smile widened when Kyle flinched at the wrong pronunciation. “So, what brings you here, to my humble company?”

 

Kyle really needed to work on this guy not getting under his skin. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath to regain his composure and clear his mind. “I’m here to ask about your association with Mitch Conner.”

 

The plump CEO raised his right eyebrow. “Is that so? He’s just a…” He really dragged out his thinking. “an acquaintance of sorts. Mainly, his ideals align with the goals of the company. So, we aid him.”

 

That was very suspicious, especially at how long it took for Cartman to come up with “acquaintance.” Kyle’s gut feeling was saying something. There was definitely more beneath the surface here, but he couldn’t precisely confront him on it without any proof at all. So instead, he decided to focus on a secondary issue. “You’ve sent him an awful lot of money, so much that it appears that Mitch Conner popped out of thin air into relevancy.”

 

Cartman chuckled, a peal of deep laughter emanating from him. “Kahl really, I thought you’d understand reality better. It’s the nature of politics. Underhanded tactics and secret deals behind doors. Everyone does it, it’s just good business.”

 

There was a sad truth to what the CEO said. Politics aren’t exactly fair, and not everyone can actually vote anyways, the franchise being fairly limited. Even so, it wasn’t right. “That doesn’t mean you should do it, because everyone else is. You could set an example, Cartman.”

 

The CEO’s voice turned slightly gentle, a touch of sincerity becoming obvious. “Kahl, my friend. That’s what Mitch Conner is trying to do. End the corrupt practices and bring down elitism. In fact, he told me his plans for increasing the voting franchise to more people. Really, you should support him.”

 

Kyle’s mind was being fucked with, he could just sense it. Even if he wants to believe. Also, if there was truth, there had to be something more. It was all too easy, too manipulative sounding. He was being told what he wanted to hear. What were Cartman’s plans? He ruled the military-industrial complex ingrained in society.

 

Noticing Kyle’s stiffness, Cartman said without blinking an eye, “You should calm down Kahl. Relax. Have you tried sucking a dick? I heard it lowers stress.”

 

“What.” It came out as a statement. What the fuck. Did the man really just say that? Not to mention the lewdness of the message, but the fact it suggested a homosexual mentality. Which, well… Kyle privately admitted he did lean towards. But the brazenness was uncalled for.

 

Cartman was unusually calm about the situation. “I’m just saying, it’s a good stress reliever. At least from what I’ve heard. It’d be perfect for a Jew boy such as you.”

 

Okay, he’s had it. Seething, Kyle snapped, “You should really learn to fuck off, fatass.”

 

Now, Cartman was scowling. “I always knew you were a little bitch. Always following your dad around like a dog. How ’bout you suck my balls.”

 

Kyle was in utter disbelief. Some part of him knew this would end up happening, but not in this fashion. “Fuck you, and fuck off you gay piece of shit. I’m leaving.” Kyle roughly stood up, causing the chair to screech on the floor as it was moved backwards.

 

“I’m not gay Kahl, you’re the Jewish fag here.” Cartman was back to his neutral, calm voice. “Thanks for stopping by. Nice of you to leave before Mitch Conner arrived.”

 

“Yeah whatever, fucking cunt,” Kyle muttered under his breath as he left. He didn’t even give the receptionist lady a spare glance.

 

* * *

 

When Kyle returned home on the sun’s rising, Ike had already responded. He skimmed over the telegram, but he was unable to focus on its contents. Something about inventing a machine called a radio or whatever and some other niceties. Of course, there was also some responses to his questions and feelings. He left it somewhere to respond to later, when he could clear his mind and when he wasn’t feeling such rage and anger.

 

He ended up forgetting about it after receiving mail the next day from Eric Cartman about enjoying his visit. That was promptly crumpled and thrown into a fireplace.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wasn't completely sure about this chapter and how I characterised Kyle, but I hope you enjoyed it nonetheless.
> 
> I don't know if I'll be able to get the goal of one chapter per week due to Summer ending, but I'll try my darn best. I expect life to get pretty busy.
> 
> Place Names:  
> Canadia - Canada


	8. Pretty Lies (Tweek)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tweek stays at the Tucker Estate near Brycgstow while the new group of acquaintances, and even newfound friends, wait for the coronation of King-Emperor Pip Pirrup. However, not all is at that it seems and it appears that the Tucker family is not as perfect as it appears. As Tweek gets to know Craig more, they start bonding as friends and Tweek finds friendship with his sister as well. Unfortunately, it seems the relative pleasantries are not meant to last forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas and happy holidays to you all. I hope you are all having a good time. It has been many months since my last chapter, due to the business of College and the stress of you know, getting a good grade. But I am back, with a gift of a third chapter that is slightly over 12,000 words long. Yep, this is a long one. And I may have a bit of Artist's Mentality, in which I think this entire thing is the worst thing I've ever done in my life. But, here it is.
> 
> It is a bit of a slow chapter, but I wanted to create some character development especially surrounding the characters of Tweek and Craig. See if you can notice some of the references I made in this one!

“Truth, like gold, is to be obtained not by its growth, but by washing away from it all that is not gold.”

-Count Lev Nikolayevich Tolstoy

 

By the time they left for the proper Tucker Estate aboard their airship and said their goodbyes, Tweek had practically consigned the layout of Grandma Tucker’s to memory. And he meant it. He could easily navigate its hallways and the gardens that comprised the manor.

 

On the contrary, he learned very little about Craig. Sure, he knew that the man with raven hair — covered up by his blue chullo — had some strange but adorable obsession with guinea pigs and a love of astronomy and what was probably an unhealthy addiction to smoking. But, he didn’t know much more than that. And Tweek wanted to.

 

Not because these romantic feelings were entering his head. Not at all. Tweek had no idea when that started creeping in.

 

As much as he enjoyed his time there, it turned out that the Tuckers would return home before the coronation since it was at the tail end of next month, and they extended their invitation until the accession for the Tweaks. This lead to Tweek’s dad to allow them to fly home on their airship when he found out that they had never flown in one. Tricia appeared to enjoy the experience the most because holy shit, she was running around the whole vessel like crazy. Tweek swore she was going to bump into someone eventually which almost happened when she nearly ran into an unsuspecting Craig Tucker resulting in some sort of… middle finger duel.

 

Honestly, this was a quirky family.

 

* * *

 

When they arrived in Brycgstow, Richard took the Tuckers to the estate in the prototype car with Tweek following close behind in a backup model full of luggage. They travelled through the narrow, winding roads before entering a gated area, the two vehicles driving down a road akin to the width of a boulevard, accompanied by evenly spaced trees that were ancient English Yews since they must have been at least above 40 feet. The branches stretched out like an umbrella causing the many leaves to cast shade onto the paved road.

 

Straight down the road led to a moderately large mansion, in comparison to others, designed in the Baroque style with a substantial amount of English characteristics. Notably, the red walls. The central portion would have been a perfect rectangle if it were not for the entrance which was built in a semi-circle, and it was three storeys high from the looks of the windows. A peaked roof emerged from the top with a classic v-shape. Two smaller wings in width and height were attached to the centre on the left and right and consisted of two storeys. They were the same distance lengthwise. The home reminded Tweek a tiny bit of the large, country homes dotted across America.

 

In front of the house was a roundabout containing a fountain and a variety of flowerbeds in its centre. It was there they parked, near the steps to the house. A few servants began rushing into the front yard to assist with all the luggage.

 

So, that was the first image Tweek experienced at the Tucker Estate. A fenced-off piece of land with an extraordinary amount of trees, pretty flowers, and a big house. An ordinarily quiet estate interrupted by the screeching of tires and the soft chugging of two steam engines. An image of a noble family slamming the car doors and a flurry of servants greeting them.

 

This manor was quite a bit larger than Grandma Tucker’s, resulting in the fact that Tweek would receive his own room instead of having to share a bedroom with Craig. Not that they shared a bed. They were only sleeping in the same room with a spare mattress that they dragged out for him.

 

Thus, it was a new place to explore with unique insights into the Tucker household. What made it an enigma was when Craig suddenly explained, “By the way, just to warn you, we put our best behaviour on display for my grandma.”

 

* * *

 

What Craig meant was obvious at dinner, where he was a conspicuous absentee from the table. Not a pressed napkin or cutlery or a plate was set for him. Just an empty chair out of the six symmetrically placed seats. It was like the chair was put there out of hope or to keep the general look of a table.

 

Tweek blinked a few times, waiting to see if the missing son would join them, not paying attention to the quiet, idle chatter. Tricia was mostly playing with her food, always moving whatever fancy food this was — fine steak and some other gubbins — with a silver fork. Dad talked to Mr Tucker about what grown-up men talked about. Politics, news, far away happenings. As if they mattered in daily life. Tweek often wondered about that, how many ordinary folks cared about the far east or, the new world? The artificer’s guild, though its goal is to be a classless organisation, became primarily an affair of a growing middle class due to the financial needs.

 

Quickly, he snapped out of that distracted thought process. It seemed no one wanted to mention Craig. Mrs Tucker displayed a sort of, neutral smile, continually acting like everything was as usual. Tweek couldn’t decide whether or not Tricia was simply bored and didn’t want to be there. Family dinners were always a struggle.

 

So, Tweek suddenly asked in a voice that came as a high-pitched squeak that reminded him of how he always used to talk when he was before his teens (that never indeed went away), “Uh, Mrs Tucker?”

 

Tricia and Mrs Tucker turned towards him, the older men still talking about the greater world and newfangled sports. Tricia had one of mild curiosity and no longer moved her fork. Mrs Tucker replied, “Yes? And you can call me Laura, Tweek.”

 

“Right. S-sorry, Lau-laura.” She smiled slightly more if that was possible. “Where is Craig?”

 

He swore that smile faltered at the question, and there was something betrayed by her eyes. But whatever happened there only happened for a millisecond as she quickly regained composure. Now everyone was looking at him including both household heads. 

 

“Oh, dear. Tweek, I think he’s in his room.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Mr Tucker butted in with, “He’s probably getting high.”

 

Tricia rolled her eyes and affirmed, “Definitely.”

 

Tweek twitched. “Pardon?’

 

“Getting high,” Mr Tucker nonchalantly and factually informed. “Means he’s smoking some drug that does psychoactive effects to his brain. I don’t know. The new community of psychology has disagreements, and so does the medicinal community.”

 

“Oh,” he repeated again.

 

“Honey,” Mr Tucker directed at Mrs Tucker. “You really ought to do something about it. He has a real problem with all the smoking and alcohol…”

 

Tweek didn’t really stay around to listen to whatever was being said. Instead, he grabbed his plate, still with plenty of food on it, and took it upstairs. There was undoubtedly a faint and distinct scent by the door. Though, it was somewhat unfamiliar. He knocked on the door gently yet in an uneven, random structure, resulting in some shuffling behind the door. The shuffling shortly ended. Tweek rapped on the door again and called out, “Craig? It’s me, Tweek. I, uh, I brought some food? For you?”

 

The door opened suddenly, revealing a… smiling? At least, what a smiling Craig Tucker would appear to look like. That neutral expression changed by only a small bit, with the sides of his lips curling just a bit upwards. The more noticeable thing was the very, red eyes that surrounded his pupil and a weird stench coming from some sort of cigarette in his mouth. 

 

“Hey, Tweek,” Craig answered in that nasal tone of his. “Come in, please. Thanks for the food.”

 

Tweek twitched as he brought the plate of food inside the bedroom, taking in the surroundings for the first time. There was an enormous number of glass bottles and alcohol scattered about near a desk, and there was even an alcohol cabinet with a variety of neatly arranged drinks. 

 

Suddenly, something jumped at him from the unmade bed, startling Tweek so much that he let out a small screech. The thing, however, simply plopped down at his feet as he flailed his arms about. Quickly enough, Tweek got a hold of himself as he regained focus. Turns out, the thing that flew at him was just Stripe, who was nuzzling his feet. A pair of hazed, blue eyes continued to watch him from behind.

 

“Ngh, hey, Stripe. D-don’t do that please.”

 

Stripe let out a squeak before turning to Craig and giving what sounded like angrier squeaks.

 

Craig translated, “Stripe says I should stop drinking and smoking.”

 

“Well yeah! It looks like you plan to die by the time you turn 30 Craig!”

 

Stripe squeaked in agreement.

 

“And what if I do?”

 

The bedroom became quiet. Tweek didn’t know what to think of that, that question. But before he could think about anything, Craig asked another question.

 

“You are my friend, right, Tweek?”

 

“Craig, we literally slept in the same room for several weeks in Londonium, and we’ve hung out a crap ton together. Of course, we’re friends.”

 

“Cool.”

 

It was quiet, so Tweek took a moment to place the food on an empty space on a table before observing the raven-haired man who had decided to sit on the large bed he owned. A fancy glass bottle of whiskey was firmly grasped by Craig. He took one quick swig and then patted the beside next to him.

 

“I don’t think I’ll ever understand you, Craig.”

 

Craig drunkenly nodded in a sage fashion, or at least as close as he could get. “Probably will take some time Blondie.”

 

Tweek shook violently as he rapidly turned towards Craig. “Blondie?!”

 

“Yeah, Blondie. It’s a nickname I came up for you.”

 

“Jesus, Craig.”

 

“It’s not my fault you have a lot of blond hair.”

 

“Fuck off, Tucker, before I take that whiskey away.”

 

The Craig Tucker emotion was then activated for that response, giving out a short whine. “Tweeeeek.” He hugged the bottle closer to his chest.

 

Tweek scoffed. “Alcoholic.”

 

Craig nasally protested, “No, I am not an alcoholic.”

 

“Yeah. And I’m the one king to rule all the barbarian tribes.”

 

“Cool.”

 

Suddenly, Tweek blurted, “What drugs are you taking anyways?”

 

Those blue eyes stared at him, blinking three times. Their owner was quiet, visibly thinking until he finally responded, “Well, Blondie. If you are sooo interested, then I have experimented with a few drugs. Opium, cannabis — the people from Metzikon call it Marijuana, hashish… Everything like that. Why do you ask? Are you interested in—”

 

“No! N-no. Why would I want to do that! I already have enough issues already and—”

 

He was interrupted by the sound of Craig’s short laughter. “Calm down, Tweek.” He shook his head after taking another swig. “Anyways, you’ve used up all your passes for Asking Craig Questions. So, no more of that. Besides, Stripe is sleeping. Don’t wake up Stripe.”

 

When the hell did Stripe go to sleep?

 

* * *

 

Around a week and a bit later, the young artificer found himself in Tricia’s room, which was certainly a change of pace. The biggest reason being that he could not find Craig in the building anywhere and he was sort of bored because the parents were out or something. It didn’t really matter. Eventually, Tricia found the poor lost soul and invited him to hang out with her.

 

The strawberry-blonde sister stopped by a set of doors. “This is my room, Tweekers. Sorry about Craig. Um, he’s busy. Doing drugs or something, hell if I know. He does what Craig does.”

 

“W-what the hell is with you guys calling me nicknames?”

 

“What did my brother call you?”

 

“Blondie.”

 

She shook her head, smiling. “Bloody hell. Remind me to flip off Craig Fucker.”

 

“You guys are weird.”

 

“Rude, but point taken,” she chuckled. “Our family has to keep things interesting, somehow. Nobility would be boring otherwise.” Tricia opened the door and lead them inside. “Welcome to my humble abode.”

 

The Tricia experience would change very quickly to turn out to be vastly different from the Craig experience. For one, it was still daylight. But the most noticeable fact was how much flair, personality, and neatness the bedroom consisted of. Obviously, the room wasn’t littered with bottles, but Tweek did spot a few that were neatly organised and were basically almost full, or barely empty. Then again, technically it was always full because of air and all that. At least, that’s what Tweek remembered from basic chemistry.

 

There were a few paintings from some artists that were probably famous. Tweek thought he recognised one, was that picture supposed to be a Monet? Maybe it was from Vincent van Gogh. There were too many to remember for one human brain, especially Tweek’s. There were also photographs of the family and some people Tweek was unfamiliar with. One had a very bored and unenthusiastic, young Craig Tucker who apparently had his famed hat back then and a little Tricia, who was extremely energetic and had a bright, wide smile. A small picture of a slightly older looking Tricia holding a cute cat was on her vanity table.

 

Most impressive of all were a few framed posters that hung from the remaining spaces in the wall. A fair few were about musicals and comedic operas, Some bolded names on the posters were Gilbert and Sullivan, and there was one about some guy called George Edwardes. Another poster was from a circus that came to town.

 

Tricia asked, “So Tweek, what do you think?”

 

He was impressed, to say the least. Tweek could derive a few things about the character of Tricia Tucker from just a quick observation in her room. “It’s g-great! Wow. I-I mean, I think it’s way better than Craig’s, to be honest.”

 

That earned Tweek a great, big smile and a surprise hug resulting in a short shriek of surprise. “Can’t believe it! A seal of approval from the great artificer Tweek Tweak. By the way, your parents are totally idiotic for naming you that considering their last names, no offence.”

 

“I know! Don’t need to tell me that. And I’m not a great artificer. I just happen to be the son of the guild—”

 

“Whatever. You made some sort of guinea pig thing out of metal, and it looks alive. I’m pretty sure I can’t do that.”

 

Tweek scratched his head through his messy hair. “Thanks, I guess.”

 

“What caught your eye in my room?”

 

“Oh! I like the posters you’ve framed. They’re interesting. I haven’t seen too many musicals since they’re just starting to grow in popularity in the Commonwealth. Especially in Gotham on Broadway. I think my dad took me to one when we visited. I was young, though.”

 

Her eyes brightened at the comment. “I’m so glad that you noticed that Tweekers! I am a huge fan of these musicals that are starting to pop up. Kind of glad you somehow befriended my lame brother then.” Tricia starting scanning Tweek and questioned, “Hey, what did you see in Craig’s room? I haven’t… I haven’t stepped in there for a while…” Her voice trailed off.

 

Really, Tweek could only remember one thing clearly. “Your brother is an alcoholic. He drinks too much. His room is kinda… plain? I guess?”

 

She sighed. “Figures. You know he used to be a big geek? Read a lot and enjoyed the crap out of these musicals to the point that he started memorising songs. Still reads at least, I believe. And as you know, big space fan. Kind of sad.” Tricia paused for a second before excitement replaced the melancholy tone. “Wait, Tweek! I need to show you this.”

 

The dynamic and spirited young lady dashed off to a side door which opened a minor storage closet. At the base lay two guitars on separate stands, where Tricia proceeded to take one of them near the foot of her bed and plopped down on the blanket that covered it before moving on to tuning it carefully. Tweek just decided to just sit on a rug that was on the floor to witness the spectacle, watching in fascination.

 

“So, I assume you’ve already guessed since you’re pretty smart Tweek, I can play acoustic guitar. This one in my hand, here, is a Torres guitar from Tarragoña. I also have a Martin guitar from the Commonwealth. It’s obvious, but I adore these things. Here, I’ll play Francisco Tárrega’s “Gran Vals” for you.”

 

She did another tune check and started strumming notes and… wow. Out came the most beautiful sounds Tweek heard in his life. The music was chipper, gently streaming out of the wood and strings at a steady rate, its player concentrating on remembering and producing each note perfectly. Tweek himself could feel that he was becoming calmer, bobbing his head along with the music. None of his tics was at their normal extremity. It was just a magical day in the Albion Summer at the Tucker estate.

 

When she finished the beautiful but sadly short song, they heard a soft clapping behind them as Stripe bolted into the room. Tweek was still entranced and was at a loss of words. He was just stunned.

 

Craig’s voice said, “Hey, Trish. Heard you playing.”

 

“Yeah. You ditched Tweekers here, and I had to take care of the poor boy. Come on, Craig Fucker.” 

 

Craig instantly flipped her off. “I am pretty sure Tweek is older than you, Ruby.”

 

The blond who was enraptured by the music finally noticed all of the tension between the two as the mood shifted. “Gah!” Stripe rushed to his aid, squeaking as it sat in his lap, nuzzling him in an attempt to calm him down.

 

Craig’s sister rubbed her eyes. “Look, where were you? Keep your-”

 

“I was walking Stripe around the estate.” Whatever Tricia was about to say was quickly interrupted.

 

Tricia crossed her arms and sternly stared down Craig. God, she was something fierce. She scolded, “You should show Tweek around then. He made that guinea pig, you know.”

 

He blinked. “Fine. Okay. We’ll do it in a few days or something. I’ll let you know, Tweek. Come on, Stripe.” The mechanical guinea pig squeaked as it scurried towards Craig. “Oh, Tricia?” She raised her eyebrow. “Your music, uh guitar skills. It was nice. Bye.” He waved at Tweek who was jittering about in confusion. “Bye, Tweek. I’ll tell you when we’re exploring or whatever.”

 

Tricia stared at Craig as he departed. Tweek stammered, “W-well Tricia. Your, your music was wonderful! I’ve never heard anything so great!”

 

“Oh, Tweekers! It’s nothing that great. Still learning and stuff. Thanks for the compliment, though. That’s really nice to hear.”

 

“No! You’re great! Continue playing, don’t stop. Uh, Tricia, what’s up with — grr — Craig?”

 

“Hell if I know. I’ve lived with him my entire life and uh…” She scratched the back of her neck. “I never really understood him, I guess. So, wanna hear another song?”

 

He couldn’t say no to that.

 

* * *

 

Apparently, Craig’s dad and mother wanted to show them the ancestral vault. For some reason. It might be pretty fascinating, though. So, they entered a secret basement vault that was hidden behind one of those cool bookcase doors that had a hidden lever. Because you know, anything that needs to lead into a secret basement with something valuable should be hidden behind a bookcase that moves. Yeah. Just like a dime novel.

 

It was a small basement though and was relatively well kept despite its apparent age - cobblestone walls and a smooth stone floor with a few cracks here and there. Medieval tapestries hung on the walls, their colours having faded over time. Old, heraldic banners stood still on the walls depicting the coat of arms of House Tucker, a vividly dark blue background with a double-headed eagle. A sword went straight through the middle with a star at the centre of the guard, the heads of the eagle peeking through the sides of the blade. Various shining suits of armour stood guard.

 

Craig Tucker stood at Tweek’s side, warning that they might get a boring history lesson as apparently his dad is huge on their family history. Tricia also happened to accompany them because apparently, they’re not really allowed down here without permission. It’s even rare for the parents to visit.

 

The back of the room was circular in nature containing a marble coffin. A pedestal lay before it. A green vine-covered with purple flowers snaked its way around the column from the plinth to the top. On it lay a stone, protected by a glass cover. The Feldspar. It glistened and shined with the presence of a beam of light that came from… somewhere. On the wall behind was the full arms of House Tucker, in all its splendour and containing all the components of heraldic tradition. The big eye-catchers were the four things that surrounded the shield that bore the coat of arms: a white wolf, a gryphon, a phoenix, and a cloaked knight. 

 

Craig’s dad spoke, “This is our ancestral vault. We’ve always been able to keep it maintained from generation to generation, and of course, that is the legendary feldspar on that pedestal. We don’t actually know who’s in the coffin because it was unmarked. Sadly, that is history that will be forever lost to us. It would be extremely disrespectful to open it, _Craig_.” The two stared at each other, and his son muttered that was pretty much incoherent and indiscernible. “The Feldspar has been passed down, and we think that the whole thing relates to the legends of Sir Tucker, first of our house after establishing his knighthood at Arthur’s round table.”

 

“Oh great,” Craig quietly groaned to Tweek, causing him to share a quiet laugh. Mr Tucker started delving deep into the history lesson, and if Tweek was honest, it was kinda dull, and he was actually starting to fall asleep until he felt a tug on his sleeve. Craig silently mouthed that they should ditch. Tweek immediately took that offer. After all, he had enough of history when he was in school. It was just so much stuff to remember. It seemed that the only person to notice their departure was Tricia who scowled at Craig as they left. She got flipped off, of course.

 

* * *

 

On Sunday, Tweek finally got that tour of the greater estate, all the grounds and nature and land that they owned. The other Tuckers were attending church, and for some reason, Craig doesn’t go nor was there any attempt to make him go. He mentioned something that they tried long ago in the past seems to imply something greater. Tweek’s father was a complicated matter. Officially, he would be considered Catholic, but well, he seems to flip flop with how adherent he is. For a while, Richard even professed atheism after reading several philosophical works from philosophers in Germania. That occupied him for at least a few years.

 

They were walking some dirt trails across the rolling fields accompanied by Stripe and also a new, furry companion of a beautifully groomed Border Collie. Craig was quite affectionate towards her, the dog’s name — as decided between the siblings — being Dione. They adopted her after one of the shepherd’s, who lived nearby, own gave birth to too many pups a three years ago. It was utterly adorable. However, Tweek had too much dog saliva on his face now.

 

“Hey Tweek, why do you practice Buddhism?”

 

“That’s an easy question. I suppose it helps my anxiety a lot. Meditation and all that. And uh, I converted after being introduced to it through some people I know in the guild. I used to be a lot more twitchy.”

 

“That’s good. I’m glad that worked out for you.”

 

The Tuckers owned a fair bit of land, containing several farms, ranches, gardens, and a vast stretch of woods, employing hundreds of people while also working with one of the local villages. Craig said they would never be able to cover the total extent in a day walking around, so he took him to specific locations until they neared the woods.

 

“These are the trees that we own. I don’t really know what it is, but I think the forest is my favourite place to be. It’s quiet, peaceful, and calming. And it’s not too bright.”

 

“Well, that seems fitting. I wouldn’t expect anything less from the great Craig Tucker, alcoholic and drug abuser extraordinaire. Is this where you disappear off too?”

 

Craig had a blank face as he looked at Tweek. He denied giving a response to the teasing, simply answering, “Yes,” as he continued strolling forward.

 

There was a smell of early morning dew, a fresh scent emanating from the plants being bathed in droplets of water. The birds were chirping, and an owl hooted in the distance, with a sudden rustling of the small critters that decided to flee from the two young men. Only a few streaks of sunlight managed to penetrate through the thick of the forest canopy and the grey clouds that were creeping up in the sky above. The sound of leaves crunched under their shoes.

 

Stripe squeaked as it clambered around in the new environment, analysing the ecosystem for future reference. Dione sniffed the forest floor, wagging her tail, and keeping her eyes alert for any potential dangers. The trail they travelled was flattened dirt, created naturally by the small activities that the locals held in the forest, such as hunting and woodcutting.

 

A few minutes into their silent walk, other than the occasional woof and the frequent sounds of other animals, they veered off the main sort of pathway into a smaller one. It only took a short hop until they reached this big ole oak tree that was far larger than any of its surrounding trees. A clear creek flowed near the tiny jut of land the base of the tree was at, sort of forming a natural embankment. Its roots were entrenched into the ground. Dione went to the water to take a quick drink.

 

Craig longingly contemplated the tree, quietly saying, “This is my favourite spot in the whooole world.”

 

“I-is it? Why’s that?”

 

Tweek’s guide denied an answer as he moved towards the tree’s trunk and stretched his arms to the nearest branch and started climbing rapidly. Several feet up, Craig looked back at Tweek, asking, “Come on, Tweek. Join me.”

 

He shouted, “Jesus! I don’t know how to climb a tree! What if I fall and die, and this whole story of mine ends?”

 

Craig shrugged, “Your call, but I am pretty sure you won’t die.”

 

The man continued his journey up the tree as Tweek considered his options. After a few minutes, his impulsive mind thought, fuck it, and he began searching for a way to climb up. After a quick tug on a branch, he too started his ascent.

 

It was tricky at first due to obvious reasons, and he had no idea how Craig did this so well. Still, Tweek very quickly got the hang of it, quickly (but not as fast as Craig) approaching to some distance far above the ground where Craig decided to be perched, his eyes just merely, taking in what Tweek is doing. Craig’s mouth betrayed no emotion as usual.

 

Somehow, Tweek was finally encroaching upon Craig’s branch in a surprisingly short amount of time, and he was just about to haul himself onto the branch when he heard a sudden snap of the branch he was using as a foothold. Panic flooded his mind as he wailed in sudden fear for his life, flailing around to hang onto something.

 

Before he plummeted to certain death and ended up as a pile of gore and organs and blood, he felt a hand on his wrist pull him roughly up, entrenching him on the stable branch. An arm was slung around him while he shook uncontrollably for what felt like an entire lifetime as he saw his life flash before his eyes just moments before. 

 

After several moments of silent, Tweek finally regained some sense of composure as he focused on the fact that, he’s still alive, up in a tree, where he could fall to his death. He turned to the owner of the arm, and by some miracle, Craig’s face was as neutral as the country of Helvetia. Though, he swore there was something different in Craig’s eyes like there was a great deal of concern and worry behind them.

 

Quickly, he realised he was staring, so he dug his face into Craig’s shoulder. In all honesty, that was probably worse in terms of exposing some feelings, but Tweek felt he earned it after recovering from his burst of survival instincts. The warm body failed to move away in response, so Tweek figured it was okay.

 

“I was impressed until that point.”

 

Tweek glared upwards at Craig, who was staring down at him with those enchanting blue eyes. Shit. Did he think enchanting? Stupid thoughts. Quickly, he removed himself from Craig’s body and pulled Craig’s arm off himself, promptly flipping him off. “F-fuck you. I could have died!”

 

“You would not have died. You would probably just get a broken arm or a leg or something. Unless you happened to land on your head. Which then, you probably would have died.”

 

“How do you know that?! It looks pretty high up to me.”

 

Craig spaced out as he averted his gaze. “Maybe we shouldn’t ruin my favourite tree.”

 

They sat there on that branch for hours, taking in the nighttime atmosphere of the woods, the sounds of the water flowing in the creek below them. He could see why Craig said it’s his favourite spot. It was soothing and relaxing. A superb place to meditate.

 

“Tweek?”

 

“Yes, Craig?”

 

“You know, the portmanteau of both our names is Creek.”

 

Tweek blinked. “What the fuck, Craig.”

 

“Hey, shut up. This is my safe thinking spot. Don’t judge me.”

 

“You’re weird.”

 

They were left to their own devices sitting up in the tree way up until the moon was at its apex. An incoming thunderstorm — pfft, how typical of weather in Albion — was threatening to pour down upon them. So quickly, they scrambled down the tree where Dione and Stripe were still waiting patiently. Turns out, a lot easier to climb down a tree than up it. The two creatures chased after them as they rushed towards the mansion as the storm encroached.

 

The Tuckers grumbled when they entered the home, Tweek and Craig both drenched in water, creating little puddles on the floor.

 

* * *

 

Tweek, Craig, and Tricia were in the city centre Brycgstow, hanging out in one of those newfangled department stores. He had no idea why he was asked to come, or even why it was that it was explicitly Craig who asked him. It all seemed just, very sudden. Not to mention that he felt like he was way too out of place for this. The price tags, the building, the goods they were selling all seemed way out of his class, and he was still wearing his artificer’s clothing compared to some of the suits and monocles that others wore.

 

Well, in all honesty, he wasn’t poor. After all, he was the son of the most potent independent organisation on Earth. But well, they put their money towards machinery and gadgets than fancy clothing unless, of course, they were visiting royalty like the jubilee.

 

When they were alone in an aisle surrounded by some rugs and silks, he tugged on Craig’s sleeve. “Craig, I-I don’t feel like I belong here.”

 

The noble smiled slightly and shook his head. “Oh, you’re fine, Tweek. The department store is middle-class stuff, anyways. Besides, most people don’t buy anything. They window shop and don’t buy anything because it’s all bullshit, overpriced crap.”

 

Tweek did this really high-pitched giggle after the bluntness of that statement. They continued wandering the aisles, featuring an arrangement of random goods from the colonies at some hefty prices. Some of the stuff was more than 10 pounds! That’s like, a tenth of a steam car. 

 

After what was probably an hour of exploring without looking anything in particular, Tricia came with a smile on her face. She was absolutely rocking this lovely teal dress, and her whole style was outstanding. Clearly, she was able to make herself presentable in public. Unlike Craig.

 

“Hey twats,” Tricia greeted with confidence. “What’s up? Did anything catch your eye, Tweek?”

 

He shook his head and frowned. “No, not really. And everything’s really expensive anyway.”

 

She patted Tweek on the back. “Aw, that’s alright.” Tricia turned towards Craig. “Brother, I’m hungry. Go make yourself useful and find us a place to eat.”

 

After flipping her off, Craig led them through the store when a sign in the corner of his vision caught his eye. Without saying a word, he quickly checked it out of sheer curiosity. The sign was labelled “Pocket Music From Helvetia - Limited Edition Stock!” A table underneath hosted an array of brass, gold, silver, and wooden objects. The selection consisted of musical pocket watches, repeaters, and music boxes in various sizes.

 

Tricia and Craig, who murmured “Found something interesting?” came up behind him to take a gander at what Tweek spotted. He picked up one of the smaller ones that you had to play manually using the little crank on the side. It had a chippy little tune.

 

Tweek explained himself, “I love music and these little music boxes. Man, there’s a lot here! The Swiss really know their stuff.”

 

There was another one that was about similar in dimension to a medium-sized snuff box, which could play itself automatically at the touch of a button. The pocket watches were powered by wind-up, some being able to be performed by pushing a button and some played by opening the cover. It was phenomenal, and Tweek loved all of them.

 

“See, while the Guild moved onto steam technology, the Swiss continued perfecting the art of clockwork,” Tweek explained with the excitement of a child.

 

There was one item in particular that caught his eye and spoke to his ears. It was an exceptionally beautiful and well-crafted music box, with elegant wood holding the golden mechanisms within. It played a simple melody, but it sounded so unique to his ears compared to the others which played typical movements of the century. This one held a unique arrangement.

 

Craig quietly asked, “Do you like that one, Tweek?”

 

If Tweek wasn’t so occupied, he would have sworn to hear something different in Craig’s voice, something with more tone and emotion. “Yeah. I do. But it’s pretty expensive. Five pounds, ten shillings, and a sixpence.” He frowned ever so slightly, expressing visible disappointment. “Let’s go, I’m hungry!”

 

Tricia nodded in complete agreement as they walked away from the merchandise. Craig lingered for a moment before Tweek shouted, “Come on, Craig!”

 

* * *

 

Tweek found Craig searching for something in one of the rooms, angrily muttering to himself before he visibly relaxed when he saw the object. He held it up in triumph. It was one of those bulky cameras. “Aha! Found you!” he declared in victory.

 

“Hey, Craig.”

 

The raven-haired man spun around, excitement in his eyes. “Oh, there you are. Come with me!” 

 

Before he had time to respond, the noiret dragged him by the wrist — causing Tweek to wince slightly in pain — as he led them towards a lounge, where Tricia was strumming on her guitar. She stopped what she was doing as she heard their footsteps, turning her head to see the two.

 

Craig casually said, “Hey, Trish, mind taking a photograph of Tweek and me?”

 

Tricia quickly placed the guitar carefully on the sofa she was on and narrowed her eyes. “Craig, when did you get back into photography? And you called me Trish again!”

 

“Oh, this is just a one-time thing. But I’ll need your help, of course.”

 

Without a word, she took the camera out of Craig’s hands and led them to a different area. Tweek’s wrist was still tightly held, so he didn’t really have any say in anything, not that he minded. Apparently, he learned Craig did photography in this strange outcome of events.

 

The Tucker daughter told them to wait there while she fetched a camera stand allowing Craig to finally let go of his wrist. Once she returned, they all got set up, and Craig had this wide, crooked smile that was the cutest thing ever. Tweek couldn’t help but smile.

 

Tricia announced, “Smile!” before she took the shot, a picture came out of the bottom of the camera. Before any of them could check it out, Craig snatched the photo, scanned it, nodded to himself, and yelled, “Thanks!” before running off.

 

They were both left standing there, and Tricia had her mouth agape at her brother’s behaviour. She commented, “That was weird. What got into his brain this time?”

 

The answer soon revealed itself to Tweek the next day.

 

* * *

 

Tweek and Craig were sitting on a stone fence on the edge of a wheat field alongside Stripe who was checking out the golden shafts that shot out the ground.

 

Craig was strange again due to the fact to the number of nervous tics Tweek could suddenly sense emanating from the man. Things like running his hand through the hair under his chullo, the fidgeting, and Craig clearly playing with something in his hands which were dug into a pocket in his jacket.

 

Tweek broke the awkward silence. “Craig, why did you bring me here?”

 

Craig hesitated, clearly trying to come up with anything to say. In the end, he answered by simply shoving something wooden in Tweek’s hand.

 

When he looked down, he found it was the same music box he longingly gazed over when they were window shopping. He brushed his fingertips over the wood, tracing the curves of the round box. 

 

He was at a loss of words. “C-Craig, I. I can’t—”

 

Craig slung an arm around him and shushed him. “Open it.”

 

Carefully, he flipped up the top, revealing the cylindrical tube and its other components and— He audibly gasped. The top portion which would have just been empty space to fit over the mechanism, but instead on the back, you could see the photograph they took yesterday — or at least, a circular clipping of one that fit the round box. Craig, with his unusually, big smile and Tweek’s little nervous one. He didn’t notice at the time, but he could see Stripe sneak into the photograph as his head was peeking out of the bottom. Tweek smiled and activated the mechanism that played the tune.

 

He hugged it close to his chest, cherishing it now and forevermore. “Craig, I-I don’t know what to say. Thank you. You didn’t have to do this.” He embraced Craig in a huge hug, and after a few seconds, the taller man reciprocated. He, too was visibly smiling.

 

“You’re welcome, Tweek. That’s what friends are for.”

 

Then after that statement, disaster.

 

A loud gunshot fired off in the distance. Then, another. The two left each other’s embrace and looked towards the source of the sound. It was in the direction of the…

 

The house. 

 

The manor.

 

Where both their families were.

 

Without a word or a glance, Craig took off trampling shoots of wheat in his path.

 

It took a few seconds for Tweek to register what was happening, but he bolted after Craig, picking up Stripe in the process who was also staring at his master.

 

When he converged upon the front entrance, he saw spots of blood on the stairway as he felt a chill flow down his neck. The door was flung open, swinging somewhat randomly as it appeared one of the hinges broke.

 

When he stepped inside, he saw much of the household staff huddled around two people laying on the floor. His dad — thank the heavens he was fine — was kneeled over talking to the person that was lumped against the wall. The length of the person and the ginger hair gave it away that it was Thomas Tucker despite being surrounded what must have been six, seven servants.

 

Craig and four others were checking on the other person who was one of the staff members. The brown-haired body was laying on the ground, a tiny pool of blood forming beneath it. Analysing the facial features (since it was easy to view with the relatively fewer people surrounding the body), the body belonged to a young servant named Jason White who happened to be a good friend of Craig’s. Tweek could remember a few times they were somewhat playing assoc — that is, Association Football. 

 

One of the maids duly observed, “He’s losing a lot of blood. They barely missed his heart.” when Craig irritably said, “I’m working on cutting the blood loss.”

 

On the other hand, Tweek’s father told Craig’s that “It was only a minor wound to your shoulder, Thomas. You should be fine.”

 

Thomas protested, “It’s not fine, Richard!” before harshly coughing.

 

The head of the staff who served as a butler and Thomas’ secretary came in, quite visibly distraught, saying, “I called the doctor and the police. They should be arriving in an hour or two.”

 

When Craig applied a large, tight bandage across Jason’s body, he murmured, “Now, all that’s left is for God, I suppose.”

 

Never once before did Craig mention God in any capacity that indicated he had power.

 

Thomas straightened himself out and croaked out, “Craig… They took Laura and Tricia.”

 

The lobby went silent as Craig jerked up and marched towards his dad, Craig’s entire body was rigid. “What.” The icy, cold tone and the pale, blank expression on Craig’s face frightened Tweek. Those usually bright, blue eyes were as dark as night. There was something sinister behind them.

 

“They kidnapped them. And stole the Feldspar.”

 

“Dad. Who’s they?”

 

Thomas closed his eyes as he leaned back against the wall once more. Craig marched towards Tweek and basically commanded, “Tweek. Car.” It wasn’t cold as his previous tone, but definitely, there was a large degree of harshness that came out. Tweek knew Craig couldn’t help it.

 

He gulped and quietly agreed, “Okay, Craig.”

 

* * *

 

It took about five minutes to start up the car due to the pressure that needed to be built up, but Tweek drove as fast as he can as they scoured the surrounding area. There was no one in sight. No Tricia or Laura Tucker or any villainous scum. Craig was silent beside him, staring off into the distance. There was something about that look that Tweek felt he gave up for the first fifteen minutes they searched. That any hope was instantly sucked out.

 

After two hours of a fruitless search attempt, they returned to a crowded manor entrance where a group of locals were hanging out by the open front gate. Two police officers guarded the path down. Tweek honked the horn, surprising the folks who had probably never seen a steam car in person once in their life, much less the fancy guild prototype. The officers were a bit startled as they stopped him when the front bumper neared the entrance.

 

One of them politely asked, “Sirs, what is your purpose here?”

 

Before Tweek got a word out, Craig simply said, “I live in that house. Thomas is my father.”

 

They were waved through without incident.

 

The roundabout had a few horses, a police wagon, and a steam carriage parked on top of it. Seemed that everyone in town was here to look at the tragedy. He parked up in whatever spare room there was, Craig patiently waiting as Tweek made sure all the mechanisms were turned off before they both got out.

 

Before they entered, Tweek solemnly said, “I’m sorry, Craig. For this whole thing.”

 

“Not your fault,” he asserted before walking through the door that was still wide open; albeit, it looked like someone attempted to close it before giving up.

 

A few servants were cleaning up in the lobby, especially in the spots where there were blood spots. At the same time, a couple more police officers idled around grumpily chatting to themselves about some upstart detective that suddenly appeared. It seemed they didn’t like the idea of some random guy stealing the spotlight and doing their jobs.

 

One of the staff notified that his dad was resting in bed, so Craig led them there. Inside were four people: Thomas, a nurse, a doctor, and some blond dude in a black coat with a crap ton of hair who looked around their age jotting things down in a notebook. That was the detective the cops were annoyed about?

 

The nurse and doctor finished whatever they were doing and declared, “Detective, Mr Tucker should be healed up by tomorrow — barring he does any heavy lifting. Jason White will probably take quite a bit of time to heal up. Around a month, I’d say. He barely made it, running at the criminals who had guns. Make sure to relay the information to Mr Tucker when he wakes up.”

 

Kenny muttered in reply, “Better than being run over.”

 

The nurse carried their medical belongings as the doctor left, saying “Excuse us, boys,” as they walked past them.

 

The blond stood up from the chair he sat upon and turned around with a cocky grin planted on his face. He placed his notepad on the bedside table before saying, “Hello lads. It’s nice to see my two favourite people in the world: Craigory and Tweekers. Well, at least one of my favourites now that…” His voice trailed off before going on a different note. “Shame we couldn’t meet on far better occasions. Regarding both events. Though, you probably don’t remember me from the late Queen’s little soirée. Sometimes, I’m a little forgettable.” He winked.

 

Tweek was taken aback by the energetic display from the guy when recently two people just got shot, and two other people got kidnapped. Also, what’s with people giving nicknames to him?! On another note, Craigory is a pretty good one. Craig just bluntly questioned, “Who the hell are you?”

 

Kenny chuckled, that sly smile still there. “Craigory, straightforward and to the point as usual. Makes sense regarding this… whole state of affairs. But I’m pretty sure it’s normal for you. I’m Detective Kenny. Kenny McCormick. Just call me Kenny, or a nickname if you want.” He waggled a finger at Craig. “For you, I worked with your parents a few time regarding the Feldspar which, as you know, has been snatched alongside your family members. As for Tweekers, I met your dad once when I had a case concerning matters of the Artificer’s Guild. He wasn’t leader at the time, but. Well, he’s come far. I’m pretty sure you guys were just kids at the time. Craigory here flipped me off.”

 

“Why the fuck is everyone in this whole damn world obsessed with this fucking, bloody rock?” Craig vented. “God, this is annoying, and it got two people I care about kidnapped to who the hell knows where?”

 

Kenny’s smile flatlined at that outburst as he sighed. He turned his chair around and sat cross-legged on it, pulling out a cigarette and lit it, taking in a long draw. After he drew it out, he smiled again and pointed to two chairs behind them lined up against the wall. Tweek, with his nervous energy starting to take over, took the offer. Craig remained standing.

 

“Well. Sadly, I cannot answer that. The case was frozen regarding the mystery of the Feldspar due to a lack of any clues and the mythological nature of the artefact. My apologies as I am a detective. Other matters came up at the time. However, that case has now thawed with this series of unfortunate events. It seems that others sought it out for one reason or another. I intend to find out as part of a greater investigation.”

 

During this informational session, Tweek had one burning question in his mind that he couldn’t hold. “W-wait, Kenny. How old are you, exactly?”

 

Kenny appeared to wrack his mind for an answer before concluding, “I’d say I’m around 30 years old now. It’s 1884, and I was born in ‘54. March 22nd. So it’s been a few months since my birthday. Thanks for asking, darling. Now I feel old.” He had a wider grin and winked at Tweek, indicating he wasn’t actually offended at all. Wasn’t he too playful to be a detective? Weren’t they all like, secretly depressed? Or maybe he’d been reading too many detective stories.

 

But damn, he did not look 30. In fact, he seemed to be a teenager. Tweek would definitely love to find out how he appeared so ageless.

 

The noiret finally took a seat and calmly said, “Kenny. We… tried looking everywhere but there was no trace of the shits who took them. Er, did you find any clues?”

 

Kenny hummed a quiet laugh. “Craig Tucker, I’d be a shit detective if I didn’t find anything.” He pulled out a cigarette. “Want one?” When Craig nodded, he handed it over and tossed him his lighter, promptly lighting it and taking in a puff. Hold on, weren’t they doing this whole thing next to Craig’s dad? Who was sleeping? The old man didn’t seem to mind at all, though, gently slumbering his woes and injuries away.

 

“Now, from the description your — sorry, Tweek’s dad — gave me, and this insignia that happened to fall off one of the criminal scum, it’s clear they belonged to a powerful gang.” He took out a pin from a coat pocket. It appeared to be an eight-pointed star akin to that of one on a compass rose with the eight principal winds. A red dot was in the middle. “They’re part of an international crime consortium: the KC. By the way, it’s no wonder you didn’t find any trace. Searching aboveground is moot.”

 

Both Tweek and Craig stared at Kenny, silently asking him to explain himself.

 

“They operate from a place known to most commonly known as the Underworld. Its name was taken for the fact that its a whole civilisation right under our feet. That’s right. It’s an entire city that spans the entirety of Albion, all underground. Due to the population boom and the crowded cities, the lowest classes began migrating downwards, and well, the biggest hive of scum and villainy live there now. Well, according to some social circles.” Kenny flashed a toothy smile. “I’m sure there are some great folks down there too.”

 

Craig slowly asked, “How does one get into this, Underworld?”

 

“Oh, that’s easy. Just find one of the gateways down there. They’re located all over, but most are in the city. The most popular route is the Londonium Metropolitan Railway. I’m sure you have your resources.” Kenny once more did another of his classic winks. “But, I do warn you. There are quite a few unsavoury folks. Criminals roam freely, and the law is whatever the various gangs, clans, and Mafia say. And… it’s much easier to get in than to leave. Also, there’s a distinct lack of sunshine, sunshines.”

 

Kenny glanced up at this tall grandfather clock that happened to be in the room, the hands indicating it was 8:32 PM. “Well, boys, I have to get going. It was nice chatting with you all, but I am a very… busy… person if you know what I mean. It’s a shame you two won’t be able to experience it, but I’m sure we’ll meet again very soon. Craig,” he directly addressed. “I hope you find what you’re looking for in the end.” The strange blond detective strolled to the door, shouting “Toodles!” before promptly departing the scene.

 

Tweek wondered aloud, “Is it just me or are all detectives weird?” But when he turned towards Craig, there was a grim look of determination and resolution on his face. A fire was burning in his eyes. “Craig?”

 

Without a word, the son left his father’s room.

 

* * *

 

It was pretty clear what Craig was planning from all those questions, and his suspicions were confirmed when he found Craig’s room an absolute mess and the noiret… dressing up in some weird getup? The guy was wearing his favourite chullo because of course, Craig would wear that, but it was sorta odd with the rest of his outfit. A brownish cloak over a blue vest, black pants, brown boots, and some sash with pouches on it alongside a small bag that hugged the top of his waist.

 

“You look ridiculous,” Tweek said from the doorway.

 

“Says the person who wears a green sheepskin jacket and hat. You always look like you are always about to fly or something.”

 

He rolled his eyes and strolled up to Craig to look him up in the eye. “Craig… what do you hope to achieve? Going into some underground city that spans the entirety of this island to look for some powerful gang, and you hope to find your sister and mother? You could die!”

 

Craig stood quietly and took in a deep breath before going over to his desk, looking into a small mirror. “It’s inevitable. If there’s one way to die, it would be redeeming myself to get Trish and mum a better life.” He opened a drawer and took out what appeared to be a dagger in a beautiful leather scabbard. Craig turned around, holding the sheathed weapon in both hands. “I have to do this. I’m not turning back and doing nothing.”

 

“I’m coming with you then.” Tweek smiled as Craig stared at him in surprise. “I’m not letting you die on some stupid, reckless quest. You’ll need all the help you can get! Jesus, this is an adventure of a lifetime.”

 

“Not sure about that, or if I’ll get anything written about me. But… thank you, Tweek. This can be our stupid, reckless quest.” He attached the dagger to a belt.

 

“Where the hell did you get that thing anyway?”

 

“A gift. From a friend when I was ten.”

 

Craig left the room while Tweek followed, wondering who the hell gives a ten-year-old a fucking dangerous weapon. They were in his dad’s office where the last remaining Tucker child began unlocking two displays with a key that he instantly found while searching the desk drawer. From the displays came a pistol — some kind of revolver — and a shortsword. Both were attached to Craig’s belt which featured a dangerous array of weaponry. They separated when Craig suggested that Tweek pack anything he considered useful before they leave. 

 

It was just the bare necessities such as food packed together in a satchel. After all, they couldn’t be lugging a huge load down there. It’d paint a huge target. No, they’d have to find ways to procure what they need down there. Tweek was also bringing some of his artificing tools as well as a beautiful pistol made of brass and wood he made himself.

 

He found Craig counting coins by the entrance as he placed them in a coin purse.

 

“How much money is that?”

 

“Like 200 pounds, it should—”

 

Tweek blinked. “Are you insane? I hope you plan to end up dead in an alley or something because that’s a shit ton of money to be taking into a lower class world filled with people who would kill for that money. You need to be carrying more pennies and shillings, and less pounds.”

 

“I’m sure we’ll be fine.” He attached the coin purse to his sash. “Besides, we’ll need the money for a train ticket to Londinium.”

 

Tweek gave him a questioning look. “Why are we going there?”

 

“Grandma has a lot of knowledge we could use. We’ll need her help to get started.”

 

And with that, they left. Craig took one final quick glance at the estate before turning around without comment. On the other hand, Tweek had written a goodbye for both of them, indicating their leave. 

 

* * *

 

The train journey was conducted in relative silence, each man obviously thinking about the journey ahead. They had their own compartment, a new design of the traditional train car that was quickly gaining steam in popularity due to its utility in use. Meant to seat 6, it was just the two of them, mainly because it was the last train out of Brycgstow to Londinium. Plus, it was cheaper than usual. Any cost saving would come in handy as they had no idea how to survive whatever they encounter and the future trials they’d face.

 

Craig seemed to stare vacantly out the window at the night sky and the sleepy towns and villages the railroad happened to pass by. While certainly retaining its countryside charm, it seems that the face of Albion and the world is ever-changing with further and further industrialisation. 

 

A great big crash accompanied by a thud was heard in the corridor outside the compartment causing both of their heads to turn towards the door. Tweek mumbled “Jesus Christ” while getting up to open the door, witnessing a red-faced conductor underneath a variety of food next to a knocked-over food cart.

 

Tweek rushed over to help the greying man up from the ground when he heard a squeak coming from the cart. Carefully approaching the noise, he found that it was—

 

“Stripe! What are you doing here?!”

 

Craig’s head popped out of their room at the mention of the Guinea Pig. “Stripe’s here?”

 

Stripe squeaked and dance around Tweek before scurrying over to Craig, nuzzling his leg. The conductor, meanwhile, stood up and brushed off the food from his clothes. “Is this your creature of creation, young man?”

 

Tweek avoided direct eye contact and shuffled his feet. “Yeah, uh. Sorry. I built him as a gift from the Artificer’s Guild. I didn’t realise he followed us. Didn’t mean to cause a ruckus” He forced out a small laugh.

 

“That’s no worry, lad. I was merely capturing it to see if I could find its owner, but that one is a tricksy little bugger. It’s quite amazing that it managed to hitch a ride on this train. So, Artificer’s Guild, eh? Haven’t heard that in a while.”

 

“Yeah… sorry for the trouble, sir. On behalf of the guild.”

 

“It’s no problem, really! I used to enjoy seeing all the little inventions the Artificers made years ago when you weren’t banned from Albion. Seeing that animal made of metal and so lifelike reminded me of the childlike wonder I held when the guild was just becoming huge. So, thank you. I hope you two, or three I might dare say, have a wonderful journey.”

 

The jolly old conductor went on his way with the cart after dropping off a few snacks for them that is. Stripe jumped towards Tweek and squeaked at him, causing Tweek to kneel down.

 

“You have something for me?”

 

Out of his mechanical mouth came out the music box that Craig had gifted him. Carefully, Tweek lifted the box, flipped it open, and played the music within. Stripe responded by dancing to the tune.

 

“Thanks, Stripe.”

 

Craig simply said, “Looks like Stripe is joining us,” smiling at the both of them.

 

* * *

 

The manor of Grandma Tucker had changed little since their last visit, the only difference that they were here as an unexpected surprise as the bearer of bad news. Tweek, who was carrying Stripe, trailed behind Craig as he knocked on the door. After a few knocks, out came a servant wearing the traditional black attire. 

 

He glanced at the two, particularly eying their weapons, and asked, “Can I help you two?”

 

Craig stepped forward and announced, “I’m her grandson. I’m here to see my grandmother.”

 

A familiar, elderly yet healthy, loud voice pierced the air. “Is that Craig? I can always recognise my little Craig’s voice!” She strolled past the servant and gave Craig a big, old hug. “What are you doing here? And oh! If it isn’t the handsome Tweek!” 

 

His cheeks turned red as he was embraced in a tight hug. He’d almost forgotten how strong Craig’s grandmother was. “T-thank you, Ms Tucker.”

 

“Please, call me Janet. Come in, come in! And do tell what you rascals are doing here? Where are your parents, and where’s my sweet Tricia?”

 

The two glanced at each other as they entered the homely abode, not bothering to take off their boots (At least they were relatively clean). Tweek decided to give leave for Craig to answer. “Grandmama… We came because we need your help. The Feldspar was stolen.”

 

Her face was drained of all colour. “What?!”

 

“And they took mum and Trish…”

 

Her face very quickly became wet with tears as she requests a chair, immediately brought by her servant. Slowly, she settled herself in its comfort. Her hands cupped her face, wiping it of tears. “Oh dear, oh dear… My poor, daughter in law. And my son?”

 

“He got injured like an idiot. You know, he was trying to be strong and brave. But he probably would have died if it wasn’t for Jason White who nearly sacrificed himself to save all of them.”

 

“That’s a relief, but hmph. I’ll need a few words with that son of mine.”

 

“Grandmother, I came here to ask if there’s anything you can do to help. A… detective came by and deduced that a group called the K.C. took them to a place called the Underworld.”

 

“Oh, sweet Jesus. That’s bloody troublesome innit. Yes… I know of that place.”

 

“You do? Can you tell us anything useful?”

 

“Well Craig, you will be in there for a bloody long time searching for them. Years, even. It’s a big place filled to the brim with people. You will need to search with caution and choose your allies carefully. I know you can do it. After all, you’re my little Craig, and you have this darling artificer coming with you. Oh, but you shall need some help as well, so…”

 

She clapped for the servant and whispered into his ear, promptly disappearing and reappearing before them with a box which he gave to Grandma Tucker. She closed her eyes and opened it slowly before opening her eyes with a sigh. The two couldn’t see what was inside, but she gradually took out the contents. A pair of silver pins, a silver brooch, and a golden amulet. “Wear these, and they will aid you on your journey.”

 

Craig hugged her taking the brooch and used the brooch to clasp his cloak together more securely. The pins, which were that of a rose, were pinned to their clothing above their heart, courtesy of the work of Craig. He simply placed the amulet in a pocket. “Thank you, grandmother. But how do we even start?”

 

“The Met. They have many entrances that lead to the Underworld. They’re not very hard to miss if you’re looking for it. It’s on the big signs. I believe the most popular is near Charing Cross, Westminister, King’s Cross, or Victoria Station.”

 

“One last thing. What is with this feldspar nonsense?”

 

She did this thing where like, her face became more severe than it was before. “Craig… There are some things in this world you’ll have to learn on your own. The Feldspar is more than what it seems, and soon you shall discover the truth. There is a reason behind our ancestral history and the mythology surrounding House Tucker.”

 

“But. Why can’t you just tell me? Why wait until some inspiring moment far in the future, where I’ve learned some lesson or accomplished some quest that will give me some shocking epiphany? This is real life, not a fairy tale in some story!”

 

Grandma Tucker just laughed. “Some things you just have to learn through life. I can’t just feed information to you. Now go, children. You have a long journey ahead of you and family to save.” The two along with Stripe moved to leave as she said her farewells. “Reclaim the family legacy, uncover our lost secrets, and save Laura and Tricia. And beware the dangers that will follow you at every step! Go forth and conquer, Craig of House Tucker. May the fair winds of destiny be in your favour, and the middle finger carry you onwards.”

 

Tweek whispered into Craig’s ear, “Dude, your family is weird.”

 

“I know.”

 

* * *

 

At the Charing Cross station for the Met, they quickly found the signs that were clearly labelled “To Underworld.” It was late at night, but a few folks were scrambling around as trains were still running, screeching to halting stops. But for the most part, there were only ten people or so.

 

The signs led them deep underground, the sound of their feet hitting the tiled floor and echoing down the brick walls, in the station till they finally reached what looked like a gate. The gate appeared to be a circular vault door in the shape of a giant steel gear. In a quick analysis, Tweek could see all of the mechanisms that made the door work, including the gears and hinges that latched onto the door to keep it in place. Next to the gargantuan gate was a man in a little booth, which he assumed functioned a sort of security.

 

They approached it, and a short man popped into view of the thick glass window that separated them. He wore a red suit typical of the familiar redcoats of Albion. A top hat was perched on his head. “Hello, good chaps! I am the Gatekeeper. At least, in this fair station. I control the means of exiting and entering the Underworld. Why are you three good sirs here late at night?”

 

Craig boldly stepped forward and claimed, “We are here to enter the Underworld.”

 

“I see. I must warn you, there are many dangers that lurk underneath. A variety of… unsavoury folks I must say. I’m not sure if it’s safe for you chaps to go down there.”

 

“We have to, there’s no other choice. We’ve prepared anyways. We can give you some coin if you need it.”

 

“No, no, sirs! I’m just here to make you aware of the dangers. I assume it is your first time here, so we must go through with a tradition of sorts. To enter thus, you must answer these questions three, ere the Underworld he see. You with the blue hat, is first.”

 

Craig groaned. “If I fucking have to.”

 

“What is your name?”

 

“...Feldspar.”

 

Tweek gave Craig a very questioning look. Why did he even say that?

 

“What is your favourite colour?”

 

Craig smiled. “Green.”

 

“What is your quest?”

 

“To save my sister and mother from the K.C. And recover the Feldspar I guess.”

 

“Interesting, very interesting… Feldspar. I wish you luck on your quest. Godspeed to you.”

 

Craig shrugged before moving to the side.

 

“Now, for the little creature.” Stripe looked upwards from the held position in Tweek’s hand. “To enter thus, you must answer these questions three, ere the Underworld he see. What is your name?”

 

_ Squeak _ .

 

“What is the answer to Life, the Universe, and Everything?’

 

_ Squeak _ .

 

“What is the Elven word for friend?”

 

_ Squeak _ .

 

“Good, master Stripe. You can proceed.” Stripe hopped out of his arms right into the arms of Craig. “Now for you, young artificer. And once again, To enter thus, you must answer these questions three, ere the Underworld he see. What is your name?”

 

“Tweek Tweak. Um. The f-first name being with two e’s and the last having an e and a. Like, the word weak? I suppose.”

 

“What is the airspeed velocity of an unladen airship?”

 

Tweek racked his brain for an answer before getting a spark that triggered an idea. “0 miles per hour! Because, because an airship will always require people to operate, which technically counts as a load. Besides, you didn’t specify whether it was a Zeppelin, gyrocopter, Savarkar Atomic, or— Well, you got the point.”

 

“Very well spoken. I’m rather impressed, and you got me there with that last bit. Now, for your last question… Why are you here?”

 

Tweek felt glued to the spot, twitching, his heartbeat rising. Why was he here? He had no connection other than gratitude… It could be something that would end up killing him and then what, that’s his legacy? He won’t see civilisation above for like… a really long time. If at all. But what was he leaving behind…? Nothing of note, other than his parents. But Tweek has always been the independent sort. Was it to do with Craig? He’s felt weird things around the adult who was still technically a teenager, just one year older than him. Was Craig fucking Tucker the reason he’s going on this journey? Wanderlust? Call to adventure?

 

He took in a deep breath and tried to slow his fidgeting. He hadn’t noticed, but he was pulling his hair. That damn old habit of his. Craig had a hand on his shoulder, mouthing “Are you okay?” Tweek nodded and closed his eyes. Breathe in. Out. Finally, he had an answer. Smiling, he responded, “Because of Craig. For being my friend. The only real friend I’ve had in years. And uh… To make something of myself. To be more than the son of the Technocrat of the Artificer’s Guild. And I guess… learn more about this world of ours.”

 

“Very well. I confer on to you all the ability to traverse the Underworld. You all have answered three questions rather successfully, I dare say. I wish you all luck. Now, you must ask to open the gates with DRAMA and GUSTO!”

 

Craig and Tweek both said, “Open the gates!”

 

“That was severely lame. I can’t operate with that energy. Once again, with feelings! Especially for you, young Feldspar.”

 

“GATEKEEPER, OPEN THE GATES!” Tweek overpowered Craig, who probably put in 10% more energy and emotion.

 

“That’ll do. Now stand back as these hands work its magic. It’s time… to walk into tomorrow!”

 

He started operating some levers and buttons, pulling and pressing and tugging. What sounded like horns blasted into the gate chamber, as the gear door hissed and decompressed. Bright, white lights turned on around them, illuminating the dark corners of the room. The smaller gears on the door started turning, making a racket of sounds. The door moved out of the wall slightly and started rolling to the right screeching as it moved along the wall. Sure enough, it ended with a thud as it froze in place, leaving a gap wide enough for what could be two dozen people.

 

They were introduced to a well-lit tunnel that served as a boulevard of sorts with what appeared to be shops at the side of it. Slowly, Craig, Tweek and Stripe walked through the opening in the wall and stepped foot into the Underworld. The gatekeeper shouted behind them, “The first major town you will encounter is Steambury!

 

Craig scoffed and joked to Tweek, “That’s original. Why does everything have to do with gears and pipes and steam? I mean, look at these stores. They are sort of normal looking, but there’s a bunch of gears that appear to serve no purpose.”

 

The noiret was right. Clearly, the Underworld followed a different style. “I guess that’s the architecture here. Besides, Craig… What’s up with being named Feldspar, huh?”

 

“Look, you have to be careful. You can’t just throw your real name out there.”

 

“But seriously Craig, Feldspar?!”

 

“That’s the first thing I could think of!”

 

“God, you’re ridiculous. I’d have chosen Michael.”

 

“That’s just lame. Anyways… we should get going?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“And Tweek? I’m glad you’re here with me.”

 

Tweek smiled, and the group walked into the ever-darkening tunnels of the Underworld.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed the chapter and sorry for the long wait. I don't believe the next one will take so long, but who the hell knows.
> 
> The song that Tricia plays can be heard through this video on the same guitar:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9sZQ0m5oKLc
> 
> I'd also imagine that the music box happens to be a music box version of "The Ballad of Tweek and Craig."
> 
> Places:  
> Metzikon - Mexico  
> Gotham - New York City  
> Tarragoña - Spain  
> Helvetia - Switzerland


End file.
